rently speaking--outside His power. He is sorry for
us--infinitely sorry, waiting and longing to send help, when our eyes
are open to receive it. Perhaps I'm wrong, I can't tell; but it's the
belief that helps me most, and removes the sting. I have such a big
trouble for a woman to face--a lonely life; such a big effort to make--
to look at happiness through the eyes of others, and keep sweet, and
generous, and ungrudging. I need so much help..."

The minutes passed, while Vanna sat motionless, buried in thought.
Passers-by cast curious glances at the still figure seated upon the
pebbly beach above the fringed line of seaweed--her scarlet cloak
gathered round her shoulders, her dark hair blown back from her face.
It was not a beautiful nor even a pretty face in the usual acceptance of
the words: the features were neither good enough to be noticeable, nor
bad enough to jar. The only beauties were found in the dark, finely
arched eyebrows, the oval shape of the face, and the stag-like setting
of the small head, to which characteristics Vanna owed that air of
distinction which redeemed her from the commonplace. Piers Rendall had
paid little attention to the quiet girl who had sat beside him at the
tea-table, and afterwards made an unwelcome third in the walk along the
sea-front; but as he and Jean retraced their steps across the sands an
hour later, his eyes turning towards the waiting figure fastened on the
pale face, and lingered there.

We all own a mental picture-gallery which we carry about with us till
death. Some of the pictures are ours by deliberate choice, printed on
memory by loving intent; others, pain has stamped in undying lines; a
few have gained their place as it were by accident. We had no intention
of yielding them a place, no interest in the purchase; quietly and all
uninvited they ranged themselves against the walls, and refused to be
dislodged. Piers Rendall's glance had been turned in indifference,
almost dislike; but to the end of his life the picture of Vanna remained
with him, as she sat on the grey stones, above the belt of seaweed, with
the scarlet cloak round her shoulders, and the hair blown back from her
face. Jean's merry banter fell on deaf ears; he was not listening; had
for the moment forgotten her existence. Her eye followed his, divining
the explanation; she smiled expectantly, waiting until he should speak.

"What is the matter with that girl?"

"Tiredness, I should say.