times she had been asked if she were not feeling
well, and her looking-glass reflected a face that was pale and drawn,
with dark lines under the eyes.

One evening, when she had gone to her room directly after dinner, there
was a gentle knock at her door. She opened it to find Mrs. Hamilton,
looking as if it would take only a word to send her creeping away again.

"Come in, you dear little Grey Lady," cried Patricia, putting her arm
affectionately round Mrs. Hamilton's small shoulders, and leading her
over to a basket-chair by the window.

For some time they talked of nothing in particular. At last Mrs.
Hamilton said:

"I--I hope you won't think me impertinent, my dear; but--but----"

"I should never think anything you said or did impertinent," said
Patricia, smiling.

"You know----" began Mrs. Hamilton, and then broke off.

"Anyone would think you were thoroughly afraid of me," said Patricia
with a smile.

"I don't like interfering," said Mrs. Hamilton, "but I am very worried."

She looked so pathetic in her anxiety that Patricia bent down and
kissed her on the cheek.

"You dear little thing," she cried, "tell me what is on your mind, and
I will do the best I can to help you."

"I am very--er--worried about you, my dear," began Mrs. Hamilton
hesitatingly. "You are looking so pale and tired and worn. I--I fear
you have something on your mind and--and----" she broke off, words
failing her.

"It's the summer," replied Patricia, smiling. "I always find the hot
weather trying, more trying even than Mr. Bolton's jokes," she smiled.

"Are you--are you sure it's nothing else?" said Mrs. Hamilton.

"Quite sure," said Patricia. "What else should it be?" She was
conscious of her reddening cheeks.

"You ought to go out more," said Mrs. Hamilton gently. "After sitting
indoors all day you want fresh air and exercise."

And with that Mrs. Hamilton had to rest content.

Patricia could not explain the absurd feeling she experienced that she
might miss something if she left the house. It was all so vague, so
intangible. All she was conscious of was some hidden force that seemed
to bind her to the house, or, when by an effort of will she broke from
its influence, seemed to draw her back again. She could not analyse
the feeling, she was only conscious of its existence.

From Miss Brent she had received a characteristic reply to her letter.

"DEAR PATRICIA," she wrote,

"I have read with pain and surpr