become of her if it were not for Martha? The two sauntered
together along the Craddock road.

All night long, Hadria had been trying to decide when and how to speak
to Professor Theobald. Should she send for him? Should she write to him?
Should she trust to chance for an opportunity of speaking? But, no, she
could not endure to see him again in the presence of others, before she
had spoken! Yesterday's experience had been too terrible. She had
brought pencil and paper with her, in order to be able to write to him,
if she decided on that course. There were plenty of retired nooks under
the shade of the yew-trees in the churchyard, where one could write.
The thick hedges made it perfectly secluded, and at this hour, it was
always solitary. Little Martha was gathering wild-flowers in the hedges.
She used to pluck them to lay on her mother's grave. She had but a vague
idea of that unknown mother, but Hadria had tried to make the dead woman
live again, in the child's mind, as a gentle and tender image. The
little offering was made each time that they took their walk in the
direction of Craddock. The grave looked fresh and sweet in the summer
sunshine, with the ivy creeping up the tomb-stone and half obliterating
the name. A rose-tree that Hadria and Martha had planted together, was
laden with rich red blooms.

The two figures stood, hand in hand, by the grave. The child stooped to
place her little tribute of flowers at the head of the green mound.
Neither of them noticed a tall figure at the wicket gate. He stood
outside, looking up the path, absolutely motionless. Martha let go
Hadria's hand, and ran off after a gorgeous butterfly that had fluttered
over the headstone: a symbol of the soul; fragile, beautiful, helpless
thing that any rough hand may crush and ruin. Hadria turned to watch the
graceful, joyous movement of the child, and her delight in the beauty of
the rich brown wings, with their enamelled spots of sapphire.

"Hadria!"

She gave a little gasping cry, and turned sharply. Professor Theobald
looked at her with an intent, triumphant expression. She stood before
him, for the moment, as if paralysed. It was by no means the first time
that this look had crossed his face, but she had been blind, and had not
fully understood it. He interpreted her cry and her paleness, as signs
of the fullness of his power over her. This pleased him immeasurably.
His self-love basked and purred. He felt that his moment of triumph h