shness had deprived her of almost all social intercourse,
but never before had she realised how completely he was held responsible
for her aloofness.

Privately, she would have preferred to maintain her seclusion, but it was
not in her to be ungracious. She felt bound to accept the ready sympathy
extended to her. It touched her, even though, had the choice been hers,
she would have done without it. Lucas also urged her in his kindly
fashion not to lead a hermit's existence. Mrs. Errol was insistent upon
the point.

"Don't you do it, dear," was her exhortation. "There may not be much good
to be got out of society, I'll admit. But it's one better than solitude.
Don't you shut yourself up and fret. I reckon the Lord didn't herd us
together for nothing, and it's His scheme of creation anyway."

And so Anne tried to be cordial; with the result that on a certain
morning in early May there reached her a short friendly note from Mrs.
Damer, wife of the M.F.H., begging her to dine with them quite informally
on the following night.

"There will only be a few of us, all intimate friends," the note said.
"Do come. I have been longing to ask you for such an age."

Anne's brows drew together a little over the note. She had always liked
Mrs. Damer, but her taste for dinner-parties was a minus quantity. Yet
she knew that the invitation had been sent in sheer kindness. Mrs. Damer
was always kind to everyone, and it was not the fashion among her circle
of friends to disappoint her.

Anne considered the matter, contemplated an excuse, finally rejected it,
and wrote an acceptance.

She wore the dress of shimmering green in which she had appeared at the
Hunt Ball. Vividly the memory of that night swept across her. She had not
worn it since, and scarcely knew what impulse moved her to don it now. It
well became her stately figure. Dimsdale, awaiting her departure at the
hall-door, looked at her with the admiring reverence he might have
bestowed upon a queen.

Again, during her drive through the dark, the memory of that winter night
flashed back upon her. She recalled that smooth, noiseless journey in
which she had seemed to be borne upon wings. She recalled her misery and
her weariness, her dream and her awakening. Nap had been very good to her
that night. He had won her confidence, her gratitude, her friendship. His
reputation notwithstanding, she had trusted him fully, and she had not
found him wanting. A faint sigh rose to her li