passion only can inspire me with decision. Under the inspiration of either,
however, I am transformed, and often both prompt and brave.

'Some one left here last night, I think, Miss,' said Mary Quince, with a
mysterious nod, one morning. ''Twas two o'clock, and I was bad with the
toothache, and went down to get a pinch o' red pepper--leaving the candle
a-light here lest you should awake. When I was coming up--as I was crossing
the lobby, at the far end of the long gallery--what should I hear, but a
horse snorting, and some people a-talking, short and quiet like. So I looks
out o' the window; and there surely I did see two horses yoked to a shay,
and a fellah a-pullin' a box up o' top; and out comes a walise and a bag;
and I think it was old Wyat, please'm, that Miss Milly calls L'Amour, that
stood in the doorway a-talking to the driver.'

'And who got into the chaise, Mary?' I asked.

'Well, Miss, I waited as long as I could; but the pain was bad, and me so
awful cold; I gave it up at last, and came back to bed, for I could not say
how much longer they might wait. And you'll find, Miss,'twill be kep' a
secret, like the shay as you saw'd, Miss, last week. I hate them dark ways,
and secrets; and old Wyat--she does tell stories, don't she?--and she as
ought to be partickler, seein' her time be short now, and she so old. It is
awful, an old un like that telling such crams as she do.'

Milly was as curious as I, but could throw no light on this. We both
agreed, however, that the departure was probably that of the person whose
arrival I had accidentally witnessed. This time the chaise had drawn up
at the side door, round the corner of the left side of the house; and, no
doubt, driven away by the back road.