ng held in chancery. And then Diana! He
had said he would not see her again. But was that possible? After that
kiss--after that last look back at him! How? What could he say--do? How
break so suddenly? Then, at memory of Gyp's face, he shivered. Ah, how
wretched it all was! There must be some way out--some way! Surely some
way out! For when first, in the wood of life, fatality halts, turns her
dim dark form among the trees, shows her pale cheek and those black eyes
of hers, shows with awful swiftness her strange reality--men would be
fools indeed who admitted that they saw her!

IX

Gyp stayed in her room doing little things--as a woman will when she is
particularly wretched--sewing pale ribbons into her garments, polishing
her rings. And the devil that had entered into her when she woke that
morning, having had his fling, slunk away, leaving the old bewildered
misery. She had stabbed her lover with words and looks, felt pleasure in
stabbing, and now was bitterly sad. What use--what satisfaction? How by
vengeful prickings cure the deep wound, disperse the canker in her life?
How heal herself by hurting him whom she loved so? If he came up again
now and made but a sign, she would throw herself into his arms. But
hours passed, and he did not come, and she did not go down--too truly
miserable. It grew dark, but she did not draw the curtains; the sight of
the windy moonlit garden and the leaves driving across brought a
melancholy distraction. Little Gyp came in and prattled. There was a
tree blown down, and she had climbed on it; they had picked up two
baskets of acorns, and the pigs had been so greedy; and she had been
blown away, so that Betty had had to run after her. And Baryn was
walking in the study; he was so busy he had only given her one kiss.

When she was gone, Gyp opened the window and let the wind full into her
face. If only it would blow out of her heart this sickening sense that
all was over, no matter how he might pretend to love her out of pity! In
a nature like hers, so doubting and self-distrustful, confidence, once
shaken to the roots, could never be restored. A proud nature that went
all lengths in love could never be content with a half-love. She had
been born too doubting, proud, and jealous, yet made to love too utterly.
She--who had been afraid of love, and when it came had fought till it
swept her away; who, since then, had lived for love and nothing else, who
gave a