Willie Ruston was half-dressed when the chamber-maid knocked at his door. He opened it and took from her three or four letters. Laying them on the table he finished his dressing – with him a quick process, devoid of the pleasant lounging by which many men cheat its daily tiresomeness. At last, when his coat was on, he walked two or three times up and down the room, frowning, smiling for an instant, frowning long again. Then he jerked his head impatiently as though he had had too much of his thoughts, and, going to the table, looked at the addresses on his letters. With a sudden access of eagerness he seized on one and tore it open. It bore Carlin's handwriting, and he groaned to see that the four sides were close-filled. Old Carlin was terribly verbose and roundabout in his communications, and a bored look settled on Willie Ruston's face as he read a wilderness of small details, skirmishes with unruly clerks, iniquities of office-boys, lamentations on the apathy of the public, and lastly, a conscientious account of the health of the writer's household. With a sigh he turned the second page.

"By the way," wrote Carlin, "I have had a letter from Detchmore. He draws back about the railway, and says the Government won't sanction it."

Willie Ruston raced through the rest, muttering to himself as he read, "Why the deuce didn't he wire? What an old fool it is!" and so forth. Then he flung down the letter, put his hands deep in his pockets and stood motionless for a few moments.

"I must go at once," he said aloud.

He stood thinking, and a rare expression stole over his face. It showed a doubt, a hesitation, a faltering – the work and the mark of the day and the night that were gone. He walked about again; he went to the window and stared out, jangling the money in his pockets. For nearly five minutes that expression was on his face. For nearly five minutes – and it seemed no short time – he was torn by conflicting forces. For nearly five minutes he wavered in his allegiance, and Omofaga had a rival that could dispute its throne. Then his brow cleared and his lips shut tight again. He had made up his mind; great as the thing was that held him where he was, yet he must go, and the thing must wait. Wheeling round, he took up the letter and, passing quickly through the door, went to young Sir Walter's room, with the face of a man who knows grief and vexation but has set wavering behind him.

It was an hour later when Adela Ferrars and the Seminghams sat down to their coffee. A fourth plate was laid at the table, and Adela was in very good spirits. Tom Loring had arrived; they had greeted him, and he was upstairs making himself fit to be seen after a night-voyage; his boat had lain three hours outside the harbour waiting for the fog to lift. "I daresay," said Tom, "you heard our horn bellowing." But he was here at last, and Adela was merrier than she had been in all her stay at Dieppe. Semingham also was happy; it was a great relief to feel that there was someone to whom responsibility properly, or at least more properly, belonged, and an end, therefore, to all unjustifiable attempts to saddle mere onlookers with it. And Lady Semingham perceived that her companions were in more genial mood than lately had been their wont, and expanded in the warmer air. When Tom came down nothing could exceed the empressement of his welcome.

The sun had scattered the last remnants of fog, and, on Semingham's proposal, the party passed from the table to a seat in the hotel garden, whence they could look at the sea. Here they became rather more silent; for Adela began to feel that the hour of explanation was approaching, and grew surer and surer that to her would be left the task. She believed that Tom was tactful enough to spare her most of it, but something she must say – and to say anything was terribly difficult. Lord Semingham was treating the visit as though there were nothing behind; and his wife had no inkling that there was anything behind. The wife's genius for not observing was matched by the husband's wonderful power of ignoring; and if Adela had allowed herself to translate into words the exasperated promptings of her quick temper, she would have declared a desire to box the ears of both of them. It would have been vulgar, but entirely satisfactory.

At last Tom, with carefully-prepared nonchalance, asked,

"Oh, and how is Mrs. Dennison?"

Bessie Semingham assumed the question to herself.

"She's very well, thank you, Mr. Loring. Dieppe has done her a world of good."

Adela pursed her lips together. Semingham, catching her eye, smothered a nascent smile. Tom frowned slightly, and, leaning forward, clasped his hands between his knees. He was guilty of wishing that Bessie Semingham had more pressing avocations that morning.

"You see," she chirruped, "Marjory's with her, and the children dote on Marjory, and she's got Mr. Ruston and Walter to wait on her – you know Maggie always likes somebody in her train. Well, Alfred, why shouldn't I say that? I like to have someone myself."

"I didn't speak," protested Semingham.

"No, but you looked funny. I always say about Maggie, Mr. Loring, that – "

All three were listening in some embarrassment; out of the mouths of babes come sometimes alarming things.

"That without any apparent trouble she can make her clothes look better than anybody I know."

Lord Semingham laughed; even Adela and Tom smiled.

"What a blessed irrelevance you have, my dear," said Semingham, stroking his wife's small hand.

Lady Semingham smiled delightedly and blushed prettily. She enjoyed Alfred's praise. He was so difficile as a rule. The exact point of the word "irrelevance" she did not stay to consider; she had evidently said something that pleased him. A moment later she rose with a smile, crying,

"Why, Mr. Ruston, how good of you to come round so early!"

Willie Ruston shook hands with her in hasty politeness. A nod to Semingham, a lift of the hat to Adela, left him face to face with Tom Loring, who got up slowly.

"Ah, Loring, how are you?" said Willie holding out his hand. "Young Val told me you were to arrive to-day. How did you get across? Uncommon foggy, wasn't it?"

By this time he had taken Tom's hand and shaken it, Tom being purely passive.

"By the way, you're all wrong about the water, you know," he continued, in sudden remembrance. "There's enough water to supply Manchester within ten miles of Fort Imperial. What? Why, man, I'll show you the report when we get back to town; good water, too. I had it analysed, and – well, it's all right; but I haven't time to talk about it now. The fact is, Semingham, I came round to tell you that I'm off."

"Off?" exclaimed Semingham, desperately fumbling for his eyeglass.

Adela clasped her hands, and her eyes sparkled. Tom scrutinised Willie Ruston with attentive eyes.

"Yes; to-day – in an hour; boat goes at 11:30. I've had a letter from old Carlin. Things aren't going well. That ass Detch – By Jove, though, I forgot you, Loring! I don't want to give you materials for another of those articles."

His rapidity, his bustle, his good humour were all amazing.

Tom glanced in bewilderment at Adela. Adela coloured deeply. She felt that she had no adequate reason to give for having summoned Tom Loring to Dieppe, unless (she brightened as the thought struck her) Tom had frightened Ruston away.

Willie seized Semingham's arm, and began to walk him (the activity seemed all on Willie's part) quickly up and down the garden. He held Carlin's letter in his hand, and he talked eagerly and fast, beating the letter with his fist now and again. Bessie Semingham sat down with an amiable smile. Adela and Tom were close together. Adela lifted her eyes to Tom's in question.

"What?" he asked.

"Do you think it's true?" she whispered.

"He's the finest actor alive if it isn't," said Tom, watching the beats of Ruston's fist.

"Then thank heaven! But I feel so foolish."

"Hush! here they come," said Tom.

There was no time for more.

"Tom, there's riches in it for you if we told you," laughed Semingham; "but Ruston's going to put it all right."

Tom gave a not very easy laugh.

"Fancy old Carlin not wiring!" exclaimed Willie Ruston.

"Shall I sell?" asked Adela, trying to be frivolous.

"Hold for your life, Miss Ferrars," said Willie; and going up to Bessie Semingham he held out his hand.

"What, are you really off? It's too bad of you, Mr. Ruston! Not that I've seen much of you. Maggie has quite monopolised you."

Adela and Tom looked at the ground. Semingham turned his back; his smile would not be smothered.

"Of course you're going to say good-bye to her?" pursued Lady Semingham.

Tom looked up, and Adela followed his example. They were rewarded – if it were a reward – by seeing a slight frown – the first shadow since he had been with them – on Ruston's brow. But he answered briskly, with a glance at his watch,

"I can't manage it. I should miss the boat. I must write her a line."

"Oh, she'll never forgive you," cried Lady Semingham.

"Oh, yes, she will," he laughed. "It's for Omofaga, you know. Good-bye. Good-bye. I'm awfully sorry to go. Good-bye."

He was gone. It was difficult to realise at first. His presence, the fact of him, had filled so large a space; it had been the feature of the place from the day he had joined them. It had been their interest and their incubus.

For a moment the three stood staring at one another; then Semingham, with a curious laugh, turned on his heel and went into the house. His wife unfolded yesterday's Morning Post and began to read.

"Come for a stroll," said Tom Loring to Adela.

She accompanied him in silence, and they walked a hundred yards or more before she spoke.

"What a blessing!" she said then. "I wonder if your coming sent him away?"

"No, it was genuine," declared Tom, with conviction.

"Then I was very wrong, or he's a most extraordinary man. I can't talk to you about it, Mr. Loring, but you told me I might send. And I did think it – desirable – when I wrote. I did, indeed. I hope you're not very much annoyed?"

"Annoyed! No; I was delighted to come. And I am still more delighted that it looks as if I wasn't wanted."

"Oh, you're wanted, anyhow," said Adela.

She was very happy in his coming, and could not help showing it a little. Fortunately, it was tolerably certain (as she felt sometimes, intolerably certain) that Tom Loring would not notice anything. He never seemed to consider it possible that people might be particularly glad to see him.

"And you can stay, can't you?" she added.

"Oh, yes; I can stay a bit. I should like to. What made you send?"

"You know. I can't possibly describe it."

"Did Semingham notice it too?"

"Yes, he did, Mr. Loring. I distrust that man – Mr. Ruston I mean – utterly. And Maggie – "

"She's wrapped up in him?"

"Terribly. I tried to think it was his wretched Omofaga; but it's not; it's him."

"Well, he's disposed of."

"Yes, indeed," she sighed, in complacent ignorance.

"I must go and see her, you know," said Tom, wrinkling his brow.

Adela laughed.

"What'll she say to me?" asked Tom anxiously.

"Oh, she'll be very pleasant."

"I shan't," said Tom with sudden decision.

Adela looked at him curiously.

"You mean to – to give her 'a bit of your mind?'"

"Well, yes," he answered, smiling. "I think so; don't you?"

"I should like to, if I dared."

"Why, you dare anything!" exclaimed Tom.

"Oh, no, I don't. I splash about a good deal, but I am a coward, really."

They relapsed into silence. Presently Tom began,

"It's been awfully dull in town; nobody to speak to, except Mrs. Cormack."

"Mrs. Cormack!" cried Adela. "I thought you hated her?"

"Well, I've thought a little better of her lately."

"To think of your making friends with Mrs. Cormack!"

"I haven't made friends with her. She's not such a bad woman as you'd think, though."

"I think she's horrible," said Adela.

Tom gave it up.

"There was no one else," he pleaded.

"Well," retorted Adela, "when there is anyone else, you never come near them."

The grammar was confused, but Adela could not improve it, without being landed in unbearable plainness of speech.

"Don't I?" he asked. "Why, I come and see you."

"Oh, for twenty minutes once a month; just to keep the acquaintance open, I suppose. It's like shutting all the gates on Ascension Day (isn't it Ascension Day?), only the other way round, you know."

"You so often quarrel with me," said Tom.

"What nonsense!" said Adela. "Anyhow, I won't quarrel here."

Tom glanced at her. She was looking bright and happy and young. He liked her even better here in Dieppe than in a London drawing-room. Her conversation was not so elaborate, but it was more spontaneous and, to his mind, pleasanter. Moreover, the sea air had put colour in her cheeks and painted her complexion afresh. The thought strayed through Tom's mind that she was looking quite handsome. It was the one good thing that he did not always think about her. He went on studying her till she suddenly turned and caught him.

"Well," she asked, with a laugh and a blush, "do I wear well?"

"You always talk as if you were seventy," said Tom reprovingly.

Adela laughed merrily. The going of Ruston and the coming of Tom were almost too much good-fortune for one day. And Tom had come in a pleasant mood.

"You don't really like Mrs. Cormack, do you?" she asked. "She hates me, you know."

"Oh, if I have to choose between you – " said Tom, and stopped.

"You stop at the critical moment."

"Well, Mrs. Cormack isn't here," said Tom.

"So I shall do to pass the time?"

"Yes," he laughed; and then they both laughed.

But suddenly Adela's laugh ceased, and she jumped up.

"There's Marjory Valentine!" she exclaimed.

"What! Where?" asked Tom, rising.

"No, stay where you are, I want to speak to her. I'll come back," and, leaving Tom, she sped after Marjory, calling her name.

Marjory looked round and hastened to meet her. She was pale and her eyes heavy for trouble and want of sleep.

"Oh, Adela, I'm so glad to find you! I was going to look for you at the hotel. I must talk to you."

"You shall," said Adela, taking her arm and smiling again.

She did not notice Marjory's looks; she was full of her own tidings.

"I want to ask you whether you think Lady Semingham – " began Marjory, growing red, and in great embarrassment.

"Oh, but hear my news first," cried Adela; "Marjory, he's gone!"

"Who?"

"Why, that man Mr. Ruston."

"Gone?" echoed Marjory in amazement.

To her it seemed incredible that he should be gone – strange perhaps to Adela, but to her incredible.

"Yes, this morning. He got a letter – something about his Company – and he was off on the spot. And Tom – Mr. Loring (he's come, you know), thinks – that that really was his reason, you know."

Marjory listened with wide-open eyes.

"Oh, Adela!" she said at last with a sort of shudder.

She could have believed it of no other man; she could hardly believe it of one who now seemed to her hardly a man.

"Isn't it splendid? And he went off without seeing – without going up to the cliff at all. I never was so delighted in my life."

Marjory was silent. No delight showed on her face; the time for that was gone. She did not understand, and she was thinking of the night's experience and wondering if Maggie Dennison had known that he was going. No, she could not have known.

"But what did you want with me, or with Bessie?" asked Adela.

Marjory hesitated. The departure of Willie Ruston made a difference. She prayed that it meant an utter difference. There was a chance; and while there was a chance her place was in the villa on the cliff. His going rekindled the spark of hope that almost had died in the last terrible night.

"I think," she said slowly, "that I'll go straight back."

"And tell Maggie?" asked Adela with excited eyes.

"If she doesn't know."

Adela said nothing; the subject was too perilous. She even regretted having said so much; but she pressed her friend's arm approvingly.

"It doesn't matter about Lady Semingham just now," said Marjory in an absent sort of tone. "It will do later."

"You're not looking well," remarked Adela, who had at last looked at her.

"I had a bad night."

"And how's Maggie?"

The girl paused a moment.

"I haven't seen her this morning. She sent word that she would breakfast in bed. I'll just run up now, Adela."

She walked off rapidly. Adela watched her, feeling uneasy about her. There was a strange constraint about her manner – a hint of something suppressed – and it was easy to see that she was nervous and unhappy. But Adela, making lighter of her old fears in her new-won comfort, saw only in Marjory a grief that is very sad to bear, a sorrow that comes where love – or what is nearly love – meets with indifference.

"She's still thinking about that creature!" said Adela to herself in scorn and in pity. She had quite made up her mind about Willie Ruston now. "I'm awfully sorry for her." Adela, in fact, felt very sympathetic. For the same thing might well happen with love that rested on a worthier object than "that creature, Willie Ruston!"

Meanwhile the creature – could he himself at the moment have quarrelled with the word? – was carried over the waves, till the cliff and the house on it dipped and died away. The excitement of the message and the start was over; the duty that had been strong enough to take him away could not yet be done. A space lay bare – exposed to the thoughts that fastened on it. Who could have escaped their assault? Not even Willie Ruston was proof; and his fellow-voyagers wondered at the man with the frowning brows and fretful restless eyes. It had not been easy to do, or pleasant to see done, this last sacrifice to the god of his life. Yet it had been done, with hardly a hesitation. He paced the deck, saying to himself, "She'll understand." Would any woman? If any, then, without doubt, she was the woman. "Oh, she'll understand," he muttered petulantly, angry with himself because he would not be convinced. Once, in despair, he tried to tell himself that this end to it was what people would call ordered for the best – that it was an escape for him – still more for her. But his strong, self-penetrating sense pushed the plea aside – in him it was hypocrisy, the merest conventionality. He had not even the half-stifled thanksgiving for respite from a doom still longed for, which had struggled for utterance in Maggie's sobs. Yet he had something that might pass for it – a feeling that made even him start in the knowledge of its degradation. By fate, or accident, or mischance – call it what he might – there was nothing irrevocable yet. He could draw back still. Not thanksgiving for sin averted, but a shamefaced sense of an enforced safety made its way into his mind – till it was thrust aside by anger at the check that had baffled him, and by the longing that was still upon him.

Well, anyhow – for good or evil – willing or unwilling – he was away. And she was alone in the little house on the cliff. His face softened; he ceased to think of himself for a moment; he thought of her, as she would look when he did not come – when he was false to a tryst never made in words, but surely the strongest that had ever bound a man. He clenched his fists as he stood looking from the stern of the boat, muttering again his old plea, "She'll understand!"

Was there not the railway?

CHAPTER XIX
PAST PRAYING FOR

Mrs. Dennison needed not Marjory to tell her. She had received Willie Ruston's note just as she was about to leave her bedroom. It was scribbled in pencil on half a sheet of notepaper.

"Am called back to England – something wrong about our railway. Very sorry I can't come and say good-bye. I shall run back if I can, but I'm afraid I may be kept in England. Will you write?

"W. R. R."

She read it, and stood as if changed to stone. "Something wrong about our railway!" Surely an all-sufficient reason; the writer had no doubt of that. He might be kept in England; that meant he would be, and the writer seemed to see nothing strange in the fact that he could be. She did not doubt the truth of what the note said. A man lying would have piled Pelion on Ossa, reason on reason, excuse on excuse, protestation on protestation. Besides Willie Ruston did not lie. It was just the truth, the all-sufficient truth. There was something wrong with the railway, so he left her. He would lose a day if he missed the boat, so he left her without a word of farewell. The railway must not suffer for his taking holiday; her suffering was all his holiday should make.

Slowly she tore the note into the smallest of fragments, and the fragments fell at her feet. And his passionate words were still in her ears, his kisses still burnt on her cheek. This was the man whom to sway had been her darling ambition, whom to love was her great sin, whom to know, as in this moment she seemed to know him, her bitter punishment. In her heart she cried to heaven, "Enough, enough!"

The note was his – his to its last line, its last word, its last silence. The man stood there, self-epitomised, callous and careless, unmerciful, unbending, unturning; vowed to his quest, recking of naught else. But – she clung to this, the last plank in her shipwreck – great – one of the few for whom the general must make stepping-stones. She thought she had been one of the few; that torn note told her error. Still, she had held out her hands to ruin for no common clay's sake. But it was too hard – too hard – too hard.

"Will you write?" Was he tender there? Her bitterness would not grant him even that. He did not want her to slip away. The smallest addition will make the greatest realm greater, and its loss sully the king's majesty. So she must write, as she must think and dream – and remember.

Perhaps he might choose to come again – some day – and she was to be ready!

She went downstairs. In the hall she met her children, and they said something to her; they talked and chattered to her, and, with the surface of her mind, she understood; and she listened and answered and smiled. And all that they had said and she had said went away; and she found them gone, and herself alone. Then she passed to the sitting-room, where was Marjory Valentine, breathless from mounting the path too quickly; and at sight of Marjory's face, she said,

"I've heard from Mr. Ruston. He has been called away," forestalling Marjory's trembling words.

Then she sat down, and there was a long silence. She was conscious of Marjory there, but the girl did not speak, and presently the impression of her, which was very faint, faded altogether away, and Maggie Dennison seemed to herself alone again – thinking, dreaming, and remembering, as she must now think, dream, and remember – remembering the day that was gone, thinking of what this day should have been.

She sat for an hour, still and idle, looking out across the sea, and Marjory sat motionless behind, gazing at her with despair in her eyes. At last the girl could bear it no longer. It was unnatural, unearthly, to sit there like that; it was as though, by an impossibility, a dead soul were clothed with a living breathing body. Marjory rose and came close, and called,

"Maggie, Maggie!"

Her voice was clear and louder than her ordinary tones; she spoke as if trying to force some one to hear.

Maggie Dennison started, looked round, and passed her hand rapidly across her brow.

"Maggie, I – I've not done anything about going."

"Going?" echoed Maggie Dennison. But her mind was clearing now; her brain had been stunned, not killed, and her will drove it to wakefulness and work again. "Going? Oh, I hope not."

"You know, last night – " began Marjory, timidly, flushing, keeping behind Mrs. Dennison's chair. "Last night we – we talked about it, but I thought perhaps now – "

"Oh," interrupted Mrs. Dennison, "never mind last night. For goodness' sake, forget last night. I think we were both mad last night."

Marjory made no answer; and Mrs. Dennison, her hand having swept her brow once again, turned to her with awakened and alert eyes.

"You upset me – and then I upset you. And we both behaved like hysterical creatures. If I told you to go, I was silly; and if you said you wanted to go, you were silly too, Marjory. Of course, you must stop; and do forget that – nonsense – last night."

Her tone was eager and petulant, the colour was returning to her cheeks; she looked alive again.

Marjory leant an arm on the back of the chair, looking down into Maggie Dennison's face.

"I will stay," she said softly, ignoring everything else, and then she swiftly stooped and kissed Maggie's cheek.

Mrs. Dennison shivered and smiled, and, detaining the girl's head, most graciously returned her caress. Mrs. Dennison was forgiving everything; by forgiveness it might be that she could buy of Marjory forgetfulness.

There was a ring at the door. Marjory looked through the window.

"It's Mr. Loring," she said in a whisper.

Maggie Dennison smiled – graciously again.

"It's very kind of him to come so soon," said she.

"Shall I go?"

"Go? No, child – unless you want to. You know him too. And we've no secrets, Tom Loring and I."

Tom Loring had mounted the hill very slowly. The giving of that "piece of his mind" seemed not altogether easy. He might paint poor Harry's forlorn state; Mrs. Dennison would be politely concerned and politely sceptical about it. He might tell her again – as he had told her before – that Willie Ruston was a knave and a villain, and she might laugh or be angry, as her mood was; but she would not believe. Or he might upbraid her for folly or for worse; and this was what he wished to do. Would she listen? Probably – with a smile on her lips and mocking little compliments on his friendly zeal and fatherly anxiety. Or she might flash out on him, and call his charge an insult, and drive him away; and a word from her would turn poor old Harry into his enemy. Decidedly his task was no easy one.

It was a coward's joy that he felt when he found a third person there; but he felt it from the bottom of his heart. Divine delay! Gracious impossibility! How often men adore them! Tom Loring gave thanks, praying silently that Marjory would not withdraw, shook hands as though his were the most ordinary morning call, and began to discuss the scenery of Dieppe, and – as became a newcomer – the incidents of his voyage.

"And while you were all peacefully in your beds, we were groping about outside in that abominable fog," said he.

"How you must have envied us!" smiled Mrs. Dennison, and Marjory found herself smiling in emulous hypocrisy. But her smile was very unsuccessful, and it was well that Tom Loring's eyes were on his hostess.

Then Mrs. Dennison began to talk about Willie Ruston and her own great interest in him, and in the Omofaga Company. She was very good-humoured to Tom Loring, but she did not fail to remind him how unreasonable he had been – was still, wasn't he? The perfection of her manner frightened Marjory and repelled her. Yet it would have seemed an effort of bravery, had it been done with visible struggling. But it betrayed no effort, and therefore made no show of bravery.

"So now," said Maggie Dennison, "since I haven't got Mr. Ruston to exchange sympathy with, I must exchange hostilities with you. It will still be about Omofaga – that's one thing."

Tom had definitely decided to put off his lecture. The old manner he had known and mocked and admired – the "these-are-the-orders" manner – was too strong for him. He believed he was still fond of her. He knew that he wondered at her still. Could it be true what they told him – that she was as a child in the hands of Willie Ruston? He hated to think that, because it must mean that Willie Ruston was – well, not quite an ordinary person – a conclusion Tom loathed to accept.

"And you're going to stay some time with the Seminghams? That'll be very pleasant. And Adela will like to have you so much. Oh, you can convert her! She's a shareholder. And you must have a talk to the old Baron. You've heard of him? But then he believes in Mr. Ruston, as I do, so you'll quarrel with him."

"Perhaps I shall convert him," suggested Tom.

"Oh, no, we thorough believers are past praying for; aren't we, Marjory?"

Marjory started.

"Past praying for?" she echoed.

Her thoughts had strayed from the conversation – back to what she had been bidden to forget; and she spoke not as one who speaks a trivial phrase.

For an instant a gleam of something – anger or fright – shot from Maggie Dennison's eyes. The next, she was playfully, distantly, delicately chaffing Tom about the meaning of his sudden arrival.

"Of course not– " she began.

And Tom, interrupting, stopped the "Adela."

"And you stay here too?" he asked, to turn the conversation.

"Why, of course," smiled Mrs. Dennison. "After being here all this time, it would look rather funny if I ran away just when Harry's coming. I think he really would have a right to be aggrieved then." She paused, and added more seriously, "Oh, yes, I shall wait here for Harry."

Then Tom Loring rose and took his leave. Mrs. Dennison entrusted him with an invitation to the whole of the Seminghams' party to luncheon next day ("if they don't mind squeezing into our little room," she gaily added), and walked with him to the top of the path, waving her hand to him in friendly farewell as he began to descend. And, after he was gone, she stood for a while looking out to sea. Then she turned. Marjory was in the window and saw her face as she turned. In a moment Maggie Dennison saw her looking, and smiled brightly. But the one short instant had been enough. The feelings first numbed, then smothered, had in that second sprung to life, and Marjory shrank back with a little inarticulate cry of pain and horror. Almost as she uttered it, Mrs. Dennison was by her side.

"We'll go out this afternoon," she said. "I think I shall lie down for an hour. We managed to rob ourselves of a good deal of sleep last night. You'd better do the same." She paused, and then she added, "You're a good child, Marjory. You're very kind to me."

There was a quiver in her voice, but it was only that, and it was Marjory, not she, who burst into sobs.