er. The door is half ground-glass, and I can see her
black shadow as she walks to and fro across the room. She has been
walking so ever since she entered it.

"_October_ 4.--What shall I do? Where shall I go? All night and all day
Eleanor has walked her chamber-floor. I have been to the door. I have
knocked. I have called her by name. I have turned the handle,--the door
is locked. No answer comes to me,--nothing but the black shadow
flitting across the panes. I sat down by the threshold and burst into
tears.

"Mrs. Bickford found me there. 'Do not grieve so, Miss Elizabeth,' said
she, kindly. 'It is dreadful, I know; but Miss Purcill walked the floor
all night after her father died, and would admit no one to her room.
She will be better to-morrow.'

"I shook my head. Could I believe that grief for the dead, and not
sorrow for the conduct of the living, moved her thus, I should be
happy. Then I could offer consolation and sympathy; but now, if I saw
her, what could I say? Pity, sorrow for her grief, would be but idle
words, which she would spurn with contempt,--and she would be right.
There is but one thing left for me,--I must go from Ashcroft; then,
perhaps, she and Thornton--But no, it cannot be; so wide asunder, they
cannot come together again. And do I wish it? Is not his love as much
mine now as it ever was hers? Ah, how some words once spoken cannot be
forgotten! Before me now is the little picture of Hagar, which Eleanor
had framed and hung in the library. Did she place it before my eyes as
a warning to me? In Hagar's fate I see my own; for even now I hear
Eleanor asking if the passion of a few hours is to thrust aside the
love of long years. The bondmaid will go ere she is driven out. But
Thornton--I cannot, will not, see him again. He has written to me
to-day, saying that he cannot come here, and asking me to meet him at
the well to-morrow. By that time I shall be far on my way to Madge. He
will wait for me, and I shall not come. How can I leave him thus? He
will believe me heartless and cruel. I grieve 