yards' distance,
met Tarrant himself. His costume showed that he had just come from the
railway station. Nancy would gladly have walked straight past him, but
the tone in which he addressed her was a new surprise, and she stood
in helpless confusion. He had been to London--called away on sudden
business.

'I thought of writing--nay, I did write, but after all didn't post the
letter. For a very simple reason--I couldn't remember your address.'

And he laughed so naturally, that the captive walked on by his side,
unresisting. Their conversation lasted only a few minutes, then Nancy
resolutely bade him good-night, no appointment made for the morrow.

A day of showers, then a day of excessive heat. They saw each other
several times, but nothing of moment passed. The morning after they met
before breakfast.

'To-morrow is our last day,' said Nancy.

'Yes, Mrs. Morgan told me.' Nancy herself had never spoken of departure.
'This afternoon we'll go up the hill again.'

'I don't think I shall care to walk so far. Look at the mist; it's going
to be dreadfully hot again.'

Tarrant was in a mood of careless gaiety; his companion appeared to
struggle against listlessness, and her cheek had lost its wonted colour.

'You have tea at four or five, I suppose. Let us go after that, when the
heat of the day is over.'

To this, after various objections, Nancy consented. Through the hours
of glaring sunshine she stayed at home, lying inert, by an open window.
Over the tea-cups she was amiable, but dreamy. When ready to go out, she
just looked into the sitting-room, where Jessica bent over books, and
said cheerfully:

'I may be a little late for dinner. On no account wait--I forbid it!'

And so, without listening to the answer, she hurried away.

In the upward climbing lanes, no breeze yet tempered the still air; the
sky of misted sapphire showed not a cloud from verge to verge. Tarrant,
as if to make up for his companion's silence, talked ceaselessly, and
always in light vein. Sunshine, he said, was indispensable to his life;
he never passed the winter in London; if he were the poorest of mortals,
he would, at all events, beg his bread in a sunny clime.

'Are you going to the Bahamas this winter?' Nancy asked, mentioning the
matter for the first time since she heard of it at Champion Hill.

'I don't know. Everything is uncertain.'

And he put the question aside as if it were of no importance.

They passed the old gate, an