t came. I rose at dao leave time, I . Jo opped at my door: I feared  a slip of paper ook it up. It bore these words—

    “You left me too suddenly last nigayed but a little longer, you  your clear decision nigime, c you enter not into temptation: t, I trust, is  t. JOhN.”

    “My spirit,” I ansally, “is o do inctly knoo me. At any rate, it srong enougo searco grope an outlet from t, and find tainty.”

    It  of June; yet t and c fast on my casement. I -door open, and St. Jo. Looking traverse took ty moors in tion of cross—t the coach.

    “In a ferack, cousin,” t I: “I too o meet at cross. I too o see and ask after in England, before I depart for ever.”

    It ed yet time. I filled terval in ly about my room, and pondering tation . I recalled t inion I , s unspeakable strangeness. I recalled tioned  seemed in me—not in ternal  a mere nervous impression—a delusion? I could not conceive or believe: it ion. tions of Paul and Silas’s prison; it s bands—it  out of its sleep, rembling, listening, ag; ted tartled ear, and in my quaking  and t, ed as if in joy over t it o make, independent of the cumbrous body.

    “Ere many days,” I said, as I terminated my musings, “I  nigo summon me. Letters hem.”

    At breakfast I announced to Diana and Mary t I  least four days.

    “Alone, Jane?” they asked.

    “Yes; it o see or  wime been uneasy.”

    t  t, t to be  any friends save ten said so; but, rue natural delicacy, tained from comment, except t Diana