usand years, the typical and
representative agony of the world, and, clinging there, made wild
appeal, like the generations before her, to a God in whose hand lie the
creatures of His will.

* * * * *

"Mrs. Colwood said I might come and say good-bye to you," said Fanny
Merton, holding her head high.

She stood on the threshold of Diana's little sitting-room, looking in.
There was an injured pride in her bearing, balanced by a certain anxiety
which seemed to keep it within bounds.

"Please come in," said Diana.

She rose with difficulty from the table where she was forcing herself to
write a letter. Had she followed her own will she would have been up at
her usual time and down to breakfast. But she had turned faint while
dressing, and Mrs. Colwood had persuaded her to let some tea be brought
up-stairs.

Fanny came in, half closing the door.

"Well, I'm off," she said, flushing. "I dare say you won't want to see
_me_ again."

Diana came feebly forward, clinging to the chairs.

"It wasn't your fault. I must have known--some time."

Fanny looked at her uneasily.

"Well, of course, that's true. But I dare say I--well I'm no good at
beating about the bush, never was! And I was in a temper, too--that was
at the bottom of it."

Diana made no reply. Her eyes, magnified by exhaustion and pallor,
seemed to be keeping a pitiful shrinking watch lest she should be hurt
again--past bearing. It was like the shrinking of a child that has been
tortured, from its tormentor.

"You are going to London?"

"Yes. You remember those Devonshire people I went to stay with? One of
the girls is up in London with her aunt. I'm going to board with them
a bit."

"My lawyers will send the thousand pounds to Aunt Merton when they have
arranged for it," said Diana, quietly. "Is that what you wish?"

A look of relief she could not conceal slipped into Fanny's countenance.

"You're going to give it us--after all?" she said, stumbling over the
words.

"I promised to give it you."

Fanny fidgeted, but even her perceptions told her that further thanks
would be out of place.

"Mother'll write to you, of course. And you'd better send fifty pounds
of it to me. I can't go home under three months, and I shall run short."

"Very well," said Diana.

"Good-bye," said Fanny, coming a little nearer. Then she looked round
her, with a first genuine impulse of something like remorse--if the word
is not too st