tance than two years ago, yet had not become, nor ever would, a
vigorously independent man. In her hands the decision had lain--and the
affair was decided.

On Tuesday, the day after Egremont's departure for the North of
England, she was still thinking these thoughts. At four o'clock in the
afternoon, having seen her children come in from the garden and gather
for tea, she went with a book to spend an hour in the arbour where she
had had that fateful conversation with Walter on the summer night. As
she drew near to the covered spot, it seemed to her that there was a
footfall behind on the grass. She turned her head, and with surprise
saw Thyrza.

With something more than surprise. As she looked in Thyrza's face, that
slight uneasiness in her mind changed to a dark misgiving, and from
that to the certainty of fear. Thyrza had never regarded her thus; and
she herself had never seen features so passionately woe-stricken. The
book fell from her hand; she could not utter a greeting.

'I want to speak to you, Mrs. Ormonde.'

'Come in here, Thyrza. Why have you come? What has happened?'

She drew back under the shelter of leaf-twined trellis, and Thyrza
followed. Mrs. Ormonde met the searching eyes, and compassion helped
her to self-command. She could not doubt what the first words spoken
would be, yet the mystery of the scene was inscrutable to her.

'I want to ask you about Mr. Egremont,' Thyrza said, resting her
trembling hand on the little rustic table. 'I want to know where he is.'

Prepared as she had been, the words, really spoken, struck Mrs. Ormonde
with new consternation. The voice was not Thyrza's; it had no
sweetness, but was like the voice of one who had suffered long
exhaustion, who speaks with difficulty.

'Yes, I will tell you where he is, Thyrza,' the other replied, her own
accents shaken with sympathy. 'Why do you wish to hear of Mr. Egremont?'

'I think you needn't ask me that, Mrs. Ormonde.'

'Yes, I must ask. I can't understand why you should come like this,
Thyrza. I can't understand what has happened to make this change in you
since I saw you last.'

'Mrs. Ormonde, you do understand! Why should you pretend with me? You
know that I have been waiting--waiting since Saturday.'

Thyrza spoke as if there were no mystery in her having attached a hope
to that particular day. All but distraught as she was, she made no
distinction between the mere fact of her abiding love, which she could
not concei