Then had followed an interval. Lady
Griselda's health had begun to fail, she was much abroad, and when at
home, disinclined to spare her niece. It was not until the fifth year
of Martin's widower-hood that Grizel again visited The Glen, but since
then every six or seven months had brought about more or less fleeting
visits. Questioning herself, Katrine realised that while at the
beginning she herself had been the one to suggest a fresh invitation,
for the last two years Martin had taken the initiative, while she, with
an instinctive unwillingness, had sought excuses.

Could it be that subconsciously she had divined this ending; had known
that slowly, surely, Martin's heart was passing into Grizel's keeping?
She had held fiercely to the remembrance of Juliet; to the ideal of
lifelong faithfulness; held to it the more fiercely as doubt grew, but
now it was no longer doubt, it was certainty. Martin loved Grizel with
the love of a full-grown man, compared with which that pretty idyll of
the past had been child's play. And Grizel? Who could say! That she
would not marry while her aunt lived had for years been an accepted
fact, but Lady Griselda's days were numbered. In a few months the
question of Grizel's future position would be decided, and then--
Katrine's mind had a flashlight realisation of two alternatives, Martin
refused, despairing, Martin accepted, aglow. For one black moment of
involuntary selfishness, each seemed equally obnoxious. Then with a
stifled sob, she shut the door, and buried her face in her hands.

Throughout the silent house travelled the sound of an imperative rap.

"Who's there?"

The sharp, impatient voice was enough to quell the courage of an
ordinary intruder. Grizel chuckled, and knocked once more, a trifle
more loudly than before.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Who's--there?"

"Me!"

It was the tiniest of squeaks, and the irate author, shouting back an
imperious "Go away!" settled himself to his task, but the knock sounded
yet again, and in a fury of impatience he dashed to the door and stood
scowling upon the threshold.

"What the--"

"Devil--" concluded Grizel calmly, "but it isn't. It's me. Let me in,
Martin! It's a choice between you and buying cabbages in the rain.
Katrine says so, and I should catch my death of cold."

But the change in the man's face was startling to behold. The scowl had
vanished, had been wiped