l--and I did need friends--I was SO alone. I had been
through so much. I had struggled and suffered and--"

Again, as in our quarrel at Wrayton, she was on the verge of tears. And
again that unreasonable conscience of mine smote me. I longed to--Well,
to prove myself the fool I was.

But she did not give me the opportunity. Before I could speak or move
she was on her way to the door.

"This ends it," she said. "I shall go away from here at once. I
shall put the whole matter in my solicitor's hands. This is an end of
forbearance and all the rest. I am going. You have made me hate you and
despise you. I only hope that--that some day you will despise yourself
as much. But you won't," scornfully. "You are not that sort."

The door closed. She was gone. Gone! And soon--the next day at the
latest--she would have been gone for good. This WAS the end.

I walked many miles that day, how many I do not know. Dinner was waiting
for me when I returned, but I could not eat. I rose from the table, went
to the study and sat there, alone with my misery. I was torn with the
wildest longings and desires. One, I think, was to kill Heathcroft
forthwith. Another was to kill myself.

There came another knock at the door. This time I made no answer. I did
not want to see anyone.

But the door opened, nevertheless, and Hephzy came in. She crossed the
room and stood by my chair.

"What is it, Hosy?" she said, gently. "You must tell me all about it."

I made some answer, told her to go away and leave me, I think. If that
was it she did not heed. She put her hand upon my shoulder.

"You must tell me, Hosy," she said. "What has happened? You and Frances
have had some fallin' out, I know. She wouldn't come to dinner, either,
and she won't see me. She's up in her room with the door shut. Tell me,
Hosy; you and I have fought each other's battles for a good many years.
You can't fight this one alone; I've got to do my share. Tell me,
dearie, please."

And tell her I did. I did not mean to, and yet somehow the thought that
she was there, so strong and quiet and big-hearted and sensible, was, if
not a comfort to me, at least a marvelous help. I began by telling her a
little and then went on to tell her all, of my talk with Lady Carey, my
meeting with Heathcroft, the scene with Frances--everything, word for
word.

When it was over she patted my shoulder.

"You did just right, Hosy," she said. "There was nothin' else you could
do. I never l