Ah! what scenes and
changes, dazzling and dark, had occurred since the careless
though thoughtful days of her early girlhood! Sybil mused: she
recalled the moonlit hour when Mr Franklin first paid a visit
to their cottage, their walks and wanderings, the expeditions
which she planned and the explanations which she so artlessly
gave him. Her memory wandered to their meeting in
Westminster, and all the scenes of sorrow and of softness of
which it was the herald. Her imagination raised before her in
colours of light and life the morning, the terrible morning
when he came to her desperate rescue; his voice sounded in her
ear; her cheek glowed as she recalled their tender farewell.
It was past noon: Sybil had reached the term of her
expedition, had visited her last charge; she was emerging from
the hills into the open country, and about to regain the river
road that would in time have conducted her to the bridge. On
one side of her was the moor, on the other a wood that was the
boundary of Mowbray Park. And now a number of women met her,
some of whom she recognised, and had indeed visited earlier in
the morning. Their movements were disordered, distress and
panic were expressed on their countenances.
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