ore at her case; and then she cried, heartily, and without
precautions, enjoying to the full the luxury of being unwatched and
unheard. Since teatime, she seemed to have been fighting her tears,
exercising a self-restraint that was new to her and very hard; and not
to-day alone--oh, no, for weeks past, she had been obliged to act a
part. Not even in her bed at night had she been free to indulge her
grief; for, if she cried then, it made her pale and heavy-eyed next
day, and exposed her to Joan's comments. And there were so many things
to cry about: all the emotional excitement of the summer, with its ups
and downs of hope and fear; the never-ceasing need of dissimulation;
the gnawing uncertainty caused by Schilsky's silence; the growing sense
of blankness and disappointment; Joan's suspicions; Maurice's
discovery; the knowledge that Schilsky had gone away without a word to
her; and, worst of all, and most inexplicable, the terrible visit of
the afternoon--at the remembrance of the madwoman she had escaped from,
Ephie's tears flowed with renewed vigour. Her handkerchief was soaked
and useless; she held her fur tippet across her eyes to receive the
tears as they fell; and when this grew too wet, she raised the skirt of
her dress to her face. Not a sound was to be heard but her sobbing; she
was absolutely alone; and she wept on till those who cared for her,
whose chief wish was to keep grief from her, would hardly have
recognized in her the child they loved.

How long she had been there she did not know, when she was startled to
her feet by a loud rustling in the bushes behind her. Then, of a
sudden, she became aware that it was pitch-dark, and that she was all
by herself in the woods. She took to her heels, in a panic of fear, and
did not stop running till the street-lamps came into sight. When she
was under their friendly shine, and could see people walking on the
other side of the river, she remembered that she had left her hat lying
on the seat. At this fresh misfortune, she began to cry anew. But not
for anything in the world would she have ventured back to fetch it.

She crossed the Pleisse and came to a dark, quiet street, where few
people were; and here she wandered up and down. It was late; at home
they would be sitting at supper now, exhausting themselves in
conjectures where she could be. Ephie was very hungry, and at the
thought of the warmth and light of the supper-table, a lump rose in her
throat. If it had