ct her from harm.

"Good night," he said, as he stopped just before they reached the
nearest lodge gates of her grounds.

"Good night and thank you," replied Mavis.

"I won't wish you a very happy Christmas."

"May I wish you one?"

"Good night," he answered curtly.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

TRIBULATION

Although, as time went on, Mavis became used to her griefs, and
although she got pleasure from the opulent, cultured atmosphere with
which she was surrounded, she was neither physically nor spiritually
happy. It was not that the mutual love existing between herself and
Harold abated one jot; neither was it that she had lost overmuch of her
old joyousness in nature and life. But there were two voids in her
being (one of which she knew could never be filled) which were the
cause of her distress. A woman of strong domestic instincts, she would
have loved nothing better than to have had one or two children. Owing
to her changed circumstances, maternity would not be associated with
the acute discomforts which she had once experienced. Whenever she
heard of a woman of her acquaintance having a baby, her face would
change, her heart would be charged with a consuming envy. Illustrations
of children's garments in the advertisement columns of women's journals
caused her to turn the page quickly. Whenever little ones visited her,
she would often, particularly if the guest were a boy, furtively hug
him to her heart. Once or twice, on these occasions, she caught
Windebank's eye, when she wondered if he understood her longing.

Her other hunger was for things of the spirit. She was as one adrift
upon a sea of doubt; many havens noticed her signals of distress, but,
despite the arrant display of their attractions, she could not find one
that promised anchorage to which she could completely trust. Her
old-time implicit faith in the existence of a Heavenly Father, who
cared for the sparrows of life, had waned. Whenever the simple belief
recurred to her, as it sometimes did, she would think of Mrs Gowler's,
to shudder and put the thought of beneficent interference with the
things of the world from her mind.

At the same time she could not forget that when there had seemed every
prospect of her being lost in the mire of London, or in the slough of
anguish following upon her boy's death, she had, as if by a miracle,
escaped.

Now and again, she would find herself wondering if, after all, the
barque of her life had been ste