"She says it's most particular, and she won't give her name. She's very young, and I think she's crying."
"Then show her in."
And in a moment Ada Leslie stood before me.
"Ada! my dear child, what is it?"
She was trembling violently.
"Gone!" she said in her heart-broken accents.
"Gone!" I repeated. "Who?"
"Hugh, Gone to Australia. Look here!" and she thrust a crumpled letter into my hand. It was indeed a farewell from him—a farewell written with all the passionate tenderness of his love for her, but admitting not the shadow of a hope that he would falter in his determination. It was more than he could bear, he said, the disgrace that had been heaped upon him; more than he could stand, to meet the cold averted looks, the sneers, the innuendos which fell so thickly on his path. Nor would he condemn her to share his lot; the shame that had come [{97}] on him should never be reflected on her. He bade her farewell with many a vow and many a prayer. She had been his first love, she would be his last; and to know she was happy would be all he would ever care to hear from the land he was leaving, even if that happiness were shared with another. Much more he said, and I read it on to the end.
"How could he! Oh, how could he!" she cried, wringing her hands, when I had finished and laid down the letter. "Did he not know my whole heart and soul were bound up in him? Did he not know that he was my very life? And he has gone from me, left me."
I could not answer for a minute. I was thinking deeply.