"That is all, indeed. I did not preserve the letters. I have a fatal habit of making pipe-lights of them."
"Did she tell you, in those letters, that she was tired of Brackenside, Mr. Leslie?"
"No, they were both written in excellent spirits, I thought. I do not remember that there was any mention of home or any one; in fact, I am sure there was not."
"Did she ask you to help her to find a situation?" said Earle.
"No, indeed, she never did. At Brackenside she pretended often enough to be tired of the place, and to want to go elsewhere, but I never paid any serious attention to it. You see, Earle, if you will love a woman who has all the beauty of the rainbow, you must be content to abide by all her caprices. I am sure she has done something to pain you, Earle—tell me what it is?"
"I will tell you," said Earle. "At first I thought that you had helped her, but now I believe I am mistaken. She has left home unknown to any of us. She has gone abroad as governess."
Gregory Leslie gave a little start of incredulity and surprise.
"Gone abroad," he repeated; "I can believe that easily; but as governess, I can never imagine that."
"She says so. She left two letters, and they both tell the same story."
"If I should believe it," said Gregory Leslie, "I should most certainly say, Heaven help the children taught by the fair Doris. Candidly speaking, I should not like to be one of them."