"Can't you help me to search for it?" cried the almost crying Mrs. Gillett; "it must be here somewheres."
A silent search commenced; Miles enjoyed it, scarcely answering to himself wherefore he felt so light-hearted. We often feel thus before care and grief. All at once Mrs. Gillett uttered a cry between a groan and a scream. "I have it—I have it!" she exclaimed, in agony. "It was mine master took off the table! Oh, marciful! what am I to do now? You're lost, Miss Minnie, if they find out that you have left your room; they'll send you off before next week to Lancashire! We're all lost—all of us! How are you to get in? you can't creep through the keyhole," and she flung herself on the sofa in complete prostration of all power of thought.
"Tell me," said Miles, pale as death, and now the serious, anxious man again, "is what you say true? Are they really going to send Minnie away there?"
"Well, there's no use disguising it. I thought I wouldn't tell you yet; sorrow comes soon enough. Yes it is all settled," and Mrs. Gillett was again her kind self. Poor Minnie began crying bitterly. Miles had been on the point of giving up the key; when he heard this, he again restored it to his pocket. He felt he might find friendly aid through it. "Minnie, dearest," he said, enclosing the crying girl in his arms, "don't weep yet, we have time before us. Trust to me, and my love neither will desert nor fail you. You shall never go there. This is a time now to act, to meet force with the strength my great love for you gives me. Come, Minnie, cheer up; don't let me leave you in tears."
"Don't leave me!" she cried, clinging to him. "I have so strong a fear upon me."
He was trembling himself, and nearly overcome. By a great effort he recovered himself; for, had he followed his heart's promptings, she would have quitted all for him that night. He knew, he felt his power over her, and trembled for his own resolution.
"Oblige me, darling," he whispered, with quivering lips. "Return to your room, confide in my unsleeping watchfulness over you; you never shall go to Lancashire. In the last extremity, rely upon my being there to save—now I cannot, will not; I should say, to do so, I should have to reproach myself." She looked up, not knowing his meaning, in answer to what her prayer had seemed to implore, namely, flight. She did not know what she uttered, in her terror at the idea of separation.
"It is all very well bidding her go to her room," chimed in Mrs. Gillett; "but tell me how is it to be done?"
"Search," he answered, now perfectly calm, though pale. "You must have many keys—search, you will find one."
In a moment, the woman shook bunch after bunch out of basket, pocket, and cupboard. After a long and anxious examination, she selected three as "likely ones," and, armed with these, crept up-stairs alone, to try them first.