heard was:

"Oh, you positively must fish, you know, for there is nothing else to
be done here. One day you must fish, next day you ride or drive, next
day you fish again; and that's all, except tennis. Winnie and I do
nothing else. In the evening Beauty sings to us, and there's
beautifully she sings. You'll be charmed with her voice--sweet, old
Welsh airs, you know--"

"Hush, Gwen; stop that chatter. I want to ask Mr. Wynne something
about Dr. Belton."

"Oh, papa! all the way from the station, and you didn't ask him about
Dr. Belton!"

Cardo was thankful to have to talk to Colonel Meredith, for it enabled
him to turn his head aside, though still he was conscious of that white
figure opposite him, with the golden head and the deep blue eyes.

She had regained her composure, and was talking calmly to the curate,
who was laying before her his plans for a Sunday school treat. It is
one of the bitter trials of humanity that it has to converse about
trifles while the heart is breaking. If only the tortured one could
rush away to some lonely moor, there to weep and wail to his heart's
content, the pain would not be so insufferable; but in life that cannot
be, and Valmai smiled and talked platitudes with a martyr's patience.

In the drawing-room, after dinner, she buried herself in the old, red
arm-chair, setting herself to endure her misery to the bitter end.
When Cardo entered with Colonel Meredith, Cecil, and the curate, she
had passed from agonised suffering to the cold insensibility of a
stone. She knew she would wake again when the evening was over, and
she was alone with her sorrow; but now she had but to bear and wait.

It would be impossible to describe Cardo's feelings; indeed, he felt,
as he entered the room, and saw that white figure in the crimson chair,
that he had already passed through the bitterness of death.

"Nothing more can hurt me," he thought; "after this I can defy every
evil power to do me harm!" And he stood in his old attitude with his
elbow leaning on the mantelpiece, while he answered Gwen's frivolous,
and Winifred's sentimental, questions.

"Are you fond of music?" one of them said at last. "Yes? Oh! Beauty,
dear, do come and sing to us--that sweet ballad you sing so often, you
know--'By Berwen Banks'."

"Not to-night," said a soft voice from the armchair. "I am tired,
Gwen. You sing, dear."

"Well, I'll sing that, if you won't."

And she sang it; and Valmai and Cardo,