ry step she seems to tread upon herself. As she reaches the door
she hesitates, and then lifts her hand as if with the intention of
knocking. But again she pauses, and her hand drops to her side. As if
more nervous than she cares to own, she leans against the lintel of the
door, as one might, desirous of support.

Then the weakness vanishes; fastening her teeth upon her under lip, she
rouses herself, and tapping gently but distinctly upon one of the
panels, awaits an answer.

Presently she gets it. "Come in," says Fabian's voice, clear,
indifferent; and slowly turning the handle she enters the room.

The lamps are alight; a fire is burning in the grate. At the upper table
of this room, that is his study, his very _sanctum sanctorum_, Fabian is
sitting with some papers and books before him.

At first, being unconscious of who his visitor is, he does not lift his
head, but now, seeing her, he rises quickly to his feet, and says,

"You!" in accents of the most acute surprise.

She is standing barely inside the door with the little volume pressed
closely, almost convulsively, between her fingers, and for a moment
makes him no reply. It is the first time they have ever been alone since
that day when he had injured his arm through the running away of Sir
Christopher's mare.

Now, his face, his tone, is so unfriendly that a great fear falls upon
her. Is he very angry with her still? Has she sinned past forgiveness?
Will he, perhaps, order her to leave the room? She tries to rally her
power of resistance against what fate--relentless, implacable--is
preparing for her; but in vain. A terrible fear of him (the man
regarding her with such stern eyes) and of herself crushes her. Her
heart dies within her; what evil has fallen upon her days, that _once_
were happy? and yet--and yet--of what--what exquisite sweetness is this
evil formed!

She flushes, first painfully; and then the flush fades, and pallor holds
full sway.

"I can do something for you?" asks Fabian, not advancing toward her,
not letting even one kindly accent warm his frozen tone, and this when
the silence has grown positively unbearable.

"Thank you--no." Her little cold hands are nervously twined around the
book she holds. Speech has cruelly deserted her; a sob has risen in her
throat, and she is battling with it so fiercely, that for a moment she
can say nothing. Then she conquers, and almost piteously she lays the
book upon the very edge of the table ne