e fire, quite near me. And, oh! what do
you think he said, as low and gently as if his voice was a woman's.
I did not know that people ever said such things now, or even thought
them. But never, never shall I forget that strange minute. He said just
this:

"'God will help you. He will. He will.'

"As if it was true, Betty! As if there was a God--and--He had not
forgotten me. I did not know what I was doing, but I put out my hand and
caught at his sleeve, and when I looked up into his face, I saw in
his kind, good eyes, that he knew--that somehow--God knows how--he
understood and that I need not utter a word to explain to him that he
had been listening to lies."

"Did you talk to him?" Betty asked quietly.

"He talked to me. We did not even speak of Nigel. He talked to me as
I had never heard anyone talk before. Somehow he filled the room with
something real, which was hope and comfort and like warmth, which kept
my soul from shivering. The tears poured from my eyes at first, but the
lump in my throat went away, and when Nigel came back I actually did not
feel frightened, though he looked at me and sneered quietly."

"Did he say anything afterwards?"

"He laughed a little cold laugh and said, 'I see you have been seeking
the consolation of religion. Neurotic women like confessors. I do not
object to your confessing, if you confess your own backslidings and not
mine.'"

"That was the beginning," said Betty speculatively. "The unexpected
thing was the end. Tell me the rest?"

"No one could have dreamed of it," Rosy broke forth. "For weeks he was
almost like other people. He stayed at Stornham and spent his days in
shooting. He professed that he was rather enjoying himself in a dull
way. He encouraged me to go to the vicarage, he invited the Ffolliotts
here. He said Mrs. Ffolliott was a gentlewoman and good for me. He said
it was proper that I should interest myself in parish work. Once or
twice he even brought some little message to me from Mr. Ffolliott."

It was a pitiably simple story. Betty saw, through its relation, the
unconsciousness of the easily allured victim, the adroit leading on
from step to step, the ordinary, natural, seeming method which arranged
opportunities. The two had been thrown together at the Court, at the
vicarage, the church and in the village, and the hawk had looked on and
bided his time. For the first time in her years of exile, Rosy had begun
to feel that she might be allowed a frie