‘Well,’ he interrupted, ’I’ve left my white surtout to Moran:  a hat, let me see, and a pair of buckles to Moore; and my glass and china to dear Mrs. Irons.’

’Hat—­buckles—­surtout—­glass—­china—­gone!  Then it seems to me your earthly possessions are pretty nearly disposed of, and your worldly cares at an end.’

‘Yes; very nearly, but not quite,’ he laughed.  ’I have one treasure left—­my poor monkey; he’s a wonderful fellow—­he has travelled half over the world, and is a perfect fine gentleman—­and my true comrade until now.  Do you think Dr. Walsingham, of his charity, would give the poor fellow free quarters at the Elms?’

She was going to make answer with a jest, satirically; but her mood changed quickly.  It was, she thought, saucy of Captain Devereux to fancy that she should care to have his pet; and she answered a little gravely—­

’I can’t say indeed; had you cared to see him, you might have asked him; but, indeed, Captain Devereux, I believe you’re jesting.’

’Faith!  Madam, I believe I am; or, it does not much matter—­dreaming perhaps.  There’s our bugle!’ And the sweet sounds quivered and soared through the pleasant air.  ’How far away it sounds already; ours are sweet bugles—­the sweetest bugles to my ear in the wide world.  Yes, dreaming.  I said I had but one treasure left,’ he continued, with a fierce sort of tenderness that was peculiar to him:  ’and I did not mean to tell you, but I will.  Look at that, Miss Lily, ’tis the little rose you left on your harpsichord this morning.  I stole it:  ’tis mine; and Richard Devereux would die rather than lose it to another.’

So then, after all, he had been at the Elms; and she had wronged him.

‘Yes, dreaming,’ he continued, in his old manner; ’and ’tis time I were awake, awake and on the march.’

‘You are then really going?’ she said, so that no one would have guessed how strangely she felt at that moment.

‘Yes, really going,’ he said, quite in his own way; ’Over the hills and far away; and so, I know, you’ll first wish your old friend God speed.’

‘I do, indeed.’

‘And then you’ll shake hands, Miss Lily, as in old times.’

And out came the frank little hand, and he looked on it, with a darkling smile, as it lay in his own sinewy but slender grasp; and she said with a smile—­’Good-bye.’

She was frightened lest he should possibly say more than she knew how to answer.

‘And somehow it seems to me, I have a great deal to say.’

‘And I’ve a great deal to read, you see;’ and she just stirred old Miss Wardle’s letter, that lay open in her hand, with a smile just the least in the world of comic distress.

‘A great deal,’ he said.

‘And farewell, again,’ said Lilias.

‘Farewell! dear Miss Lily.’