Before one closed door she pauses again--listens.

She can hear the breath of the sleepers within.

She is on her knees, and represses with difficulty a rising sob, 'Mother! mother! forgive me! God bless you!' she whispers, as she once more rises and runs down the remainder of the passage--downstairs--through the hall--through the parlour, and out by the little glass door into the garden.

In spite of her tears, haste, agitation she cannot pass that bed of carnations--her mother's treasure--without stopping to gather one fresh and dripping with the air and dews of night.

Innocent flowers! they will see her mother that very day; but what of the stray, wandering rose of Glanyravon?
Through the garden, and out by the little wicket into the lane; across a field sparkling with dewdrops; over a stile; down another lane; over another stile, and into another field! Here she pauses and glances round.