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Morton mounted his horse, and rode to the house of Mrs.
Euston. He found her daughter alone.

“I have come to take leave of you. I am on my travels
again.”

“Again! You are always on the wing. I supposed that
you must have learned, by this time, to value home, or, at
least, be reconciled to staying there in peace.”

“My home is a little lonely, and none of the liveliest.
Movement is my best repose.”

“You are wholly made up of restlessness.”

“That is Nature's failing, not mine; or if Nature declines
to bear the burden of my shortcomings, I will put them upon
Destiny, and with much better cause. But this is not restlessness;
or, if it is, it has method in it. This journey is a
plan of eight years' standing. I concocted it when I was a
junior, half fledged, at college, and never lost sight of it but
once, and then for a cause that does not exist now.”

“Where are you going?”

Morton gave the outline of his journey.

“But is not that very difficult and dangerous?”

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“Not very.”

“You will not be alone, surely.”

“I provided for a companion years ago. My friend Meredith
and I struck an agreement, that when I went on this
journey he should go with me.”

An instant shadow passed across the face of Fanny Euston.

“So you will have a companion,” she replied, with a nonchalance
too distinct to be genuine.

“Not at all. He breaks his word. He won't hear of going.”

The cloud vanished.

“I take it ill of him; for I had relied on having him with
me. He and I are old fellow-travellers. I have tried him in
sunshine and rain, and know his metal.” And he launched
into an emphatic eulogy of his friend, to which Fanny Euston
listened with a pleasure which she could not wholly hide.

“He best knows why he fails me. It is some cogent and
prevailing reason; no light cause, or sudden fancy. Some
powerful motive, mining deep and moving strongly, has
shaken him from his purpose; so I forgive him for his
falling off.”

As Morton spoke, he was studying his companion's features,
and she, conscious of his scrutiny, visibly changed color.

“Dear cousin,” he said, with a changed tone, “if I must
lose my friend, let me find, when I return, that my loss has
been overbalanced by his gain. I will reconcile myself to it,
if it may help to win for him the bounty that he aspires to.”

The blush deepened to crimson on Fanny Euston's cheek;
and without waiting for more words, Morton bade her
farewell.

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