d sounds of grief and rage escaping from her.

CHAPTER II.

When Eliza had been in her own room for about half an hour, her passion
had subsided. She was not glad of this; in perverseness she would have
recalled the tempest if she could, but she knew not what to call back or
how to call. She knew no more what had disturbed her than in times of
earthquake the sea water knows the cause of its unwonted surging. She
sat angry and miserable; angry with Harkness, not because he had called
her heartless--she did not care in the slightest for his praise or
blame--but because he had been the bearer of ill tidings; and because he
had in some way produced in her the physical and mental distress of
angry passion, a distress felt more when passion is subsiding. She
ranked it as ill tidings that her father's land had risen in value. She
would rather that her worldly wisdom in leaving it had been proved by
subsequent events than disproved, as now, by news which raised such a
golden possibility before her ignorant eyes, that her heart was rent
with pangs of envy and covetousness, while her pride warred at the very
thought of stooping to take back what she had cast away, and all the
disclosure that must ensue. Above all, she counted it ill tidings that
Bates was reported to be in the place. She was as angry with him now as
on the day she had left him--more angry--for now he could vaunt new
prosperity as an additional reason why she had been wrong to go. Why had
he come here to disturb and interrupt? What did the story about Father
Cameron matter to him? She felt like a hunted stag at bay; she only
desired strength and opportunity to trample the hunter.

Partly because she felt more able to deal with others than with the dull
angry misery of her own heart, partly because she was a creature of
custom, disliking to turn from what she had set out to do, she found
herself, after about an hour of solitude, rearranging her street toilet
to walk to Mrs. Rexford's house.

When she had made her way down to the lower flat of the hotel she found
Harkness had spoken the truth in saying he intended to go, for he was
gone. The men in the cool shaded bar-room were talking about it. Mr.
Hutchins mentioned it to her through the door. He sat in his big chair,
his crutches leaning against him.

"Packed up; paid his bill; gone clear off--did you know?"

"Yes, I knew," said Eliza, although she had not known till that moment.

"Said he was so c