“We only returned to the house in time to hasten away from it to the train.  Perhaps it was better for us so—­better that we had only a moment left to look back before the turn in the road hid the last of Combe-Raven from our view.  There was not a soul we knew at the station; nobody to stare at us, nobody to wish us good-by.  The rain came on again as we took our seats in the train.  What we felt at the sight of the railway—­what horrible remembrances it forced on our minds of the calamity which has made us fatherless—­I cannot, and dare not, tell you.  I have tried anxiously not to write this letter in a gloomy tone; not to return all your kindness to us by distressing you with our grief.  Perhaps I have dwelt too long already on the little story of our parting from home?  I can only say, in excuse, that my heart is full of it; and what is not in my heart my pen won’t write.

“We have been so short a time in our new abode that I have nothing more to tell you—­except that Miss Garth’s sister has received us with the heartiest kindness.  She considerately leaves us to ourselves, until we are fitter than we are now to think of our future plans, and to arrange as we best can for earning our own living.  The house is so large, and the position of our rooms has been so thoughtfully chosen, that I should hardly know—­except when I hear the laughing of the younger girls in the garden—­that we were living in a school.

“With kindest and best wishes from Miss Garth and my sister, believe me, dear Mr. Pendril, gratefully yours,

“NORAH VANSTONE.”

II.

From Miss Garth to Mr. Pendril.

“Westmoreland House, Kensington,

“September 23d, 1846.

“MY DEAR SIR—­I write these lines in such misery of mind as no words can describe.  Magdalen has deserted us.  At an early hour this morning she secretly left the house, and she has not been heard of since.

“I would come and speak to you personally; but I dare not leave Norah.  I must try to control myself; I must try to write.

“Nothing happened yesterday to prepare me or to prepare Norah for this last—­I had almost said, this worst—­of all our afflictions.  The only alteration we either of us noticed in the unhappy girl was an alteration for the better when we parted for the night.  She kissed me, which she has not done latterly; and she burst out crying when she embraced her sister next.  We had so little suspicion of the truth that we thought these signs of renewed tenderness and affection a promise of better things for the future.

“This morning, when her sister went into her room, it was empty, and a note in her handwriting, addressed to Norah, was lying on the dressing-table.  I cannot prevail on Norah to part with the note; I can only send you the inclosed copy of it.  You will see that it affords no clew to the direction she has taken.