as their little home. With her father's hand in hers the
girl dreamed dreams again, and it seemed to her that she was the very
Rosalie Evanturel of old, whose thoughts were bounded by a river and a
hill, a post-office and a church, a catechism and a few score of books.
Here in the crowded city she had come to be a woman who, bitterly shaken
in soul, knew life's sufferings; who had, during the past few months,
read with avidity history, poetry, romance, fiction, and the drama,
English and French; for in every one she found something that said: "You
have felt that." In these long months she had learned more than she had
known or learned in all her previous life.

As she sat looking out into the eastern sky she became conscious
of voices, and of a group of people who came slowly down the ward,
sometimes speaking to the sick and crippled. It was not a general
visitors' day, but one reserved for the few to come and say a kindly
word to the suffering, to bring some flowers and distribute books.
Rosalie had always been absent at this hour before, for she shrank from
strangers; but to-day she had stayed on unthinking. It mattered nothing
to her who came and went. Her heart was over the hills, and the only tie
she had here was with this poor cripple whose hand she held. If she
did not resent the visit of these kindly strangers, she resolutely held
herself apart from the object of their visit with a sense of distance
and cold dignity. If she had given Charley something of herself, she
had in turn taken something from him, something unlike her old self,
delicately non-intime. Knowledge of life had rationalised her emotions
to a definite degree, had given her the pride of self-repression. She
had had need of it in these surroundings, where her beauty drew not
a little dangerous attention, which she had held at arm's-length--her
great love for one man made her invulnerable.

Now, as the visitors came near, she did not turn towards them, but still
sat, her chin on her hand, looking out across the hills, in resolute
abstraction. She felt her father's fingers press hers, as if to draw her
attention, for he, weak man, was ever ready to open his hand and heart
to any friendly soul. She took no notice, but held his hand firmly, as
though to say that she had no wish to see.

She was conscious now that they were beside her father's bed. She hoped
that they would pass. But no, the feet stopped, there was whispering,
and then she heard a vo