tried anxiously to discover the other's sentiments, and to conceal
a personal verdict. Katrine discovered in Martin's depression the
confirmation of her own conviction that he could never venture to ask
Grizel to become his wife, at such a cost to her future prospects. The
conviction brought with it a renewed sense of security, but little of
the satisfaction which she had expected. A mysterious weight lay on her
heart, and she struggled against an almost overwhelming sense of
impatience. The routine of daily life appeared insufferably monotonous,
blank, and unsatisfying. If Martin settled down again into his old,
grave way, life would go on in the same old way, always the same! She
had been passing through a period of unrest and dread, but now that the
dread seemed over, her heart knew no joy. "What do I want?" Katrine
asked despairingly of herself. "What do I want?"

Martin had gone to town to attend the funeral, but as Grizel had not
attended the ceremony had had no glimpse of her. The ordinary letter of
condolence had been forwarded, but had received no reply. A week
dragged by, a fortnight, almost three weeks, and Martin, strained almost
beyond endurance, was tentatively suggesting to Katrine that it would be
a kind action to run up to town to pay Grizel a call, when the morning
post arrived, and with it a letter in the large, well-known writing.

"Will you put me up for a week?" Grizel wrote. "There is a lot of
clearing away to be done here, and I must get away. Expect me to-morrow
by the five o'clock train!"

CHAPTER TWELVE.

"Lebong, _August 20, 19--_.

"Dear Katrine,--

"Your grumbly letter safely to hand. You explained the reasons right
enough, for all your protests, and honestly, dear, I can't sympathise!
All is going as I could have told you it would, and in the best way
possible for all concerned. You've only to sit still, and await events.

"I should like to meet Miss Grizel Dundas. She doesn't sound the sort
of a girl a man _would_ look at with sorrowful eyes. I shouldn't
myself. I'd think small beer of Martin if he did. Dorothea says
there's an erratic old aunt in the question, and that no human soul can
foretell what she may do. Personally I hope she'll leave her fortune to
the Home for Stray Cats, or any mad scheme which old ladies approve,
rather than to fascinating Miss Grizel. A few hundreds a year to buy
frocks and frills is agreeable enough, but a colossal fortune i