oon. At the end of September
she leaves her place, and will come to London to be with us--for a time
at all events. We do so hope that we shall succeed in persuading Monica
to go to the house at Clevedon. Mr. Widdowson is keeping it, and will
move the furniture from Herne Hill at any moment. Couldn't you help us,
dear Miss Nunn? Monica would listen to you; I am sure she would.'

'I'm afraid I can be of no use,' Rhoda answered coldly.

'She has been hoping to see you.'

'She has said so?'

'Not in so many words--but I am sure she wishes to see you. She has
asked about you several times, and when your note came she was very
pleased. It would be a great kindness to us--'

'Does she declare that she will never return to her husband?'

'Yes--I am sorry to say she does. But the poor child believes that she
has only a short time to live. Nothing will shake her presentiment. "I
shall die, and give no more trouble"--that's what she always says to
me. And a conviction of that kind is so likely to fulfil itself. She
never leaves the house, and of course that is very wrong; she ought to
go out every day. She won't see a medical man.'

'Has Mr. Widdowson given her any cause for disliking him?' Rhoda
inquired.

'He was dreadfully violent when he discovered--I'm afraid it was
natural--he thought the worst of her, and he has always been so devoted
to Monica. She says he seemed on the point of killing her. He is a man
of very severe nature, I have always thought. He never could bear that
Monica should go anywhere alone. They were very, very unhappy, I'm
afraid--so ill-matched in almost every respect. Still, under the
circumstances--surely she ought to return to him?'

'I can't say. I don't know.'

Rhoda's voice signified a conflict of feeling. Had she been
disinterested her opinion would not have wavered for a moment; she
would have declared that the wife's inclination must be the only law in
such a case. As it was, she could only regard Monica with profound
mistrust and repugnance. The story of decisive evidence kept back
seemed to her only a weak woman's falsehood--a fiction due to shame and
despair. Undoubtedly it would give some vague relief to her mind if
Monica were persuaded to go to Clevedon, but she could not bring
herself to think of visiting the suffering woman. Whatever the end
might be, she would have not part in bringing it about. Her dignity,
her pride, should remain unsullied by such hateful contact.

'I mu