r the Boutwoods, I'm
certain he'll tell them they mustn't come."

Sarah Gailey shook her head blankly.

"I'm certain he will!" Hilda persisted. "Please--"

The other began to walk away, dragging Hilda with her. The policeman,
inspecting them from a distance, coughed and withdrew. They climbed a
flight of steps on the far side of the pier, crossed the promenade, and
went up Preston Street in silence.

"I should prefer not to be seen going in with you," said Sarah Gailey
suddenly. "It might--" she freed her arm.

"Go down the area steps," said Hilda, "and I'll wait a moment and then
go in at the front door."

Sarah Gailey hurried forward alone.

Hilda, watching her, and observing the wet footmarks which she left on
the pavement, was appalled by the sense of her own responsibility as to
the future of Sarah Gailey. Till this hour, even at her most
conscientious, she had under-estimated the seriousness of Sarah Gailey's
case. Everybody had under-estimated the seriousness of Sarah Gailey's
case.

She became aware of some one hurrying cautiously up the street on the
other side. It was George Cannon. As soon as Sarah had disappeared
within the house he crossed over.

"What's the matter?" he inquired anxiously.

"Well--"

"She hasn't been trying to drown herself, has she?"

Hilda nodded, and, speechless, moved towards the house. He turned
abruptly away.

The front door of No. 59 was still open. Hilda passed through the silent
hall, and went timorously down the steps to the basement. The gas was
still burning, and the clothes were still strewn about in Sarah Gailey's
bedroom, just as though naught had happened. Sarah stood between her two
trunks in the middle of the floor.

"Where's George?" she asked, in a harsh, perfectly ordinary voice.

"I don't think he's in the parlour," Hilda prevaricated.

"Promise me you won't tell him!"

"Of course I won't!" said Hilda kindly. "Do get into bed, and let me
make you some tea."

Sarah Gailey rushed at her and embraced her.

"I know I'm all wrong! I know it's all my own fault!" she murmured, with
plaintive, feeble contrition, crying again. "But you've no idea how I
try! If it wasn't for you--"

IV

That night Hilda, in her small bedroom at the top of the house, was
listlessly arranging, at the back of the dressing-table, the few volumes
which had clung to her, or to which she had clung, throughout the
convulsive disturbances following her mother's death. Among