th a sob in her
breath, and then I was quite sure of what I did not dare to express,
further than by saying, while I caressed her, "I believe they honestly
think it is all the same."

"But it isn't," said Viola, recovering, and trying to talk and laugh
off her confusion. "I don't think so, and poor Dermot did not find it
so when the wrong one was left to lift him, and just ran his great
stupid arm into the tenderest place in his side, and always stepped on
all the boards that creak, and upset the table of physic bottles, and
then said it was Harold's way of propping them up! And that's the
creature they expect me to believe in!"

We turned at the moment and saw a handkerchief beckoning to us from the
window; and going in, found Dermot established on a couch under it, and
Harold packing him up in rugs, a sight that amazed both of us; but
Dermot said, "Yes, he treats me like Miss Stympson's dog, you see.
Comes over by stealth when I want him."

Dermot did look very ill and pain-worn, and his left arm lay useless
across him, but there was a kind of light about his eyes that I had not
seen for a long time, as he made Harold set a chair for me close to
him, and he and Viola told the adventures of their journey, with mirth
in their own style, and Harold stood leaning against the shutter with
his look of perfect present content, as if basking in sunshine while it
lasted.

When the mother and uncle came in, it was manifestly time for us to
convey ourselves away. Harold had come on foot from Mycening, but I
was only too glad to walk my pony along the lanes, and have his company
in the gathering winter twilight.

"You have spoken to her?" he said.

"Yes. Harold, it is of no use. She will never have him."

"Her mother thinks she will."

"Her mother knows what is in Viola no more than she knows what is in
that star. Has Dermot never said anything--"

"Lady Diana made everyone promise not to say a word to him."

"Oh!"

"But, Lucy, what hinders it? There's nothing else in the way, is
there?"

I did not speak the word, but made a gesture of assent.

"May I know who it is," said Harold in a voice of pain. "Our poor
fellow shall never hear."

"Harold," said I, "are you really so ridiculous as to think any girl
could care for Eustace while you are by?"

"Don't!" cried Harold, with a sound as of far more pain than gladness.

"But why not, Harry? You asked me."

"Don't light up what I have been struggling t