words which his master had spoken to him, Dermody's pride was
concerned in leaving no trace of his whereabouts; my father might
consider it as a trace purposely left with the object of
reuniting Mary and me. I had no keepsake to speak to me of my
lost darling but the flag which she had embroidered with her own
hand. The furniture still remained in the cottage. I sat down in
our customary corner, by Mary's empty chair, and looked again at
the pretty green flag, and burst out crying.

A light touch roused me. My father had so far yielded as to leave
to my mother the responsibility of bringing me back to the
traveling carriage.

"We shall not find Mary here, George," she said, gently. "And we
_ may_ hear of her in London. Come with me."

I rose and silently gave her my hand. Something low down on the
clean white door-post caught my eye as we passed it. I stooped,
and discovered some writing in pencil. I looked closer--it was
writing in Mary's hand! The unformed childish characters traced
these last words of farewell:

"Good-by, dear. Don't forget Mary."

I knelt down and kissed the writing. It comforted me--it was like
a farewell touch from Mary's hand. I followed my mother quietly
to the carriage.

Late that night we were in London.