ld
have small chance of recovery, but malignant typhoid without shelter,
without proper nourishment or nursing, had not one chance in a
million. And he--this one man--stood alone in the midst of the
tragedy--responsible and helpless. He would feel himself responsible
as she herself would, if she were in his place. She was conscious that
suddenly the event of the afternoon--the interview upon the marshes, had
receded until it had become an almost unmeaning incident. What did the
degenerate, melodramatic folly matter----!

She had restlessly left her chair before the dressing-table, and was
walking to and fro. She paused and stood looking down at the carpet,
though she scarcely saw it.

"Nothing matters but one thing--one person," she owned to herself
aloud. "I suppose it is always like this. Rosy, Ughtred, even father and
mother--everyone seems less near than they were. It is too strong--too
strong. It is----" the words dropped slowly from her lips, "the
strongest thing--in the world."

She lifted her face and threw out her hands, a lovely young half-sad
smile curling the deep corners of her mouth. "Sometimes one feels so
disdained," she said--"so disdained with all one's power. Perhaps I am
an unwanted thing."

But even in this case there were aids one might make an effort to give.
She went to her writing-table and sat thinking for some time. Afterwards
she began to write letters. Three or four were addressed to London--one
was to Mr. Penzance.

. . . . .

Mount Dunstan and his vicar were walking through the village to the
vicarage. They had been to the hop pickers' huts to see the people
who were ill of the fever. Both of them noticed that cottage doors and
windows were shut, and that here and there alarmed faces looked out from
behind latticed panes.

"They are in a panic of fear," Mount Dunstan said, "and by way of
safeguard they shut out every breath of air and stifle indoors.
Something must be done."

Catching the eye of a woman who was peering over her short white dimity
blind, he beckoned to her authoritatively. She came to the door and
hesitated there, curtsying nervously.

Mount Dunstan spoke to her across the hedge.

"You need not come out to me, Mrs. Binner. You may stay where you are,"
he said. "Are you obeying the orders given by the Guardians?"

"Yes, my lord. Yes, my lord," with more curtsys.

"Your health is very much in your own hands," he added.

"You must keep your cottage and your c