ord exchanged on the subject,
they started.

Was she grateful to him? No. Afraid of him? No. Scornful of him? Not
quite. But she was afraid of HERSELF, horribly. How would she ever be
able to keep herself in hand, how disguise from these people that she
loved their boy? It was her desperate mood that she feared. But since
she so much wanted all the best for him that life could give, surely she
would have the strength to do nothing that might harm him. Yet she was
afraid.

He was there at the station to meet them, in riding things and a nice
rough Norfolk jacket that she did not recognize, though she thought she
knew his clothes by heart; and as the train came slowly to a standstill
the memory of her last moment with him, up in his room amid the luggage
that she had helped to pack, very nearly overcame her. It seemed so hard
to have to meet him coldly, formally, to have to wait--who knew how
long--for a minute with him alone! And he was so polite, so beautifully
considerate, with all the manners of a host; hoping she wasn't tired,
hoping Mr. Stormer had brought his fishing-rod, though they had lots, of
course, they could lend him; hoping the weather would be fine; hoping
that they wouldn't mind having to drive three miles, and busying himself
about their luggage. All this when she just wanted to take him in her
arms and push his hair back from his forehead, and look at him!

He did not drive with them--he had thought they would be too crowded--but
followed, keeping quite close in the dust to point out the scenery,
mounted on a 'palfrey,' as her husband called the roan with the black
swish tail.

This countryside, so rich and yet a little wild, the independent-looking
cottages, the old dark cosy manor-house, all was very new to one used to
Oxford, and to London, and to little else of England. And all was
delightful. Even Mark's guardian seemed to her delightful. For Gordy,
when absolutely forced to face an unknown woman, could bring to the
encounter a certain bluff ingratiation. His sister, too, Mrs. Doone,
with her faded gentleness, seemed soothing.

When Anna was alone in her room, reached by an unexpected little
stairway, she stood looking at its carved four-poster bed and the wide
lattice window with chintz curtains, and the flowers in a blue bowl.
Yes, all was delightful. And yet! What was it? What had she missed?
Ah, she was a fool to fret! It was only his anxiety that they should be
comfo