he thought of this vast publicity, this careless or cruel scorn of the
big world--toward one so frail, so anguished, so helpless in
death--clutched Diana many times in each day and night. And it led to
that perpetual image in the mind which we saw haunting her in the first
hours of her grief, as though she carried her dying mother in her arms,
passionately clasping and protecting her, their faces turned to each
other, and hidden from all eyes besides.

Also, it deadened in her the sense of her own case--in relation to the
gossip of the neighborhood. Ostrich-like, she persuaded herself that not
many people could have known anything about her five days' engagement.
Dear kind folk like the Roughsedges would not talk of it, nor Lady Lucy
surely. And Oliver himself--never!

She had reached a point in the field walk where the hill-side opened to
her right, and the little winding path was disclosed which had been to
her on that mild February evening the path of Paradise. She stood still
a moment, looking upward, the deep sob of loss rising in her throat.

But she wrestled with herself, and presently turned back to the house,
calm and self-possessed. There were things to be thankful for. She knew
the worst. And she felt herself singularly set free--from ordinary
conventions and judgments. Nobody could ever quarrel with her if, now
that she had come back, she lived her own life in her own way. Nobody
could blame her--surely most people would approve her--if she stood
aloof from ordinary society, and ordinary gayeties for a while, at any
rate. Oh! she would do nothing singular or rude. But she was often tired
and weak--not physically, but in mind. Mrs. Roughsedge knew--and Muriel.

Dear Hugh Roughsedge!--he was indeed a faithful understanding friend.
She was proud of his letters; she was proud of his conduct in the short
campaign just over; she looked forward to his return in the autumn. But
he must not cherish foolish thoughts or wishes. She would never marry.
What Lady Lucy said was true. She had probably no right to marry. She
stood apart.

But--but--she must not be asked yet to give herself to any great
mission--any set task of charity or philanthropy. Her poor heart
fluttered within her at the thought, and she clung gratefully to the
recollection of Marion's imperious words to her. That exaltation with
which, in February, she had spoken to the Vicar of going to the East End
to work had dropped--quite dropped.

Of cours