ared living to
see that afflicting sight."

Then with a change of tone exasperating--as it was designed to be--to
one, at least, of her hearers, she added:

"I'll have that soup ready against Miss Damaris wakes, Mary, in case she
should fancy it. Just touch the bell, will you, and I'll bring it up
myself. It's not suitable to give either of the girls a chance for
prying. They're a deal too curious as it is. And I'm only too pleased to
watch with you, turn and turn about, as I told you, whenever you feel to
require a rest. Lizzie will have to see to the cooking anyhow--except
what's wanted for Miss Damaris. I couldn't put my mind into kitchen work
to-night, not if you paid me ever so."

And on large flat feet she moved away towards the back-staircase, leading
down to the offices from the far end of the passage, leaving an odour of
pastry behind her and of cloves.

"To think of what to-morrow may bring, ah! dear me," she murmured
as she went.

During the ten minutes or so which immediately followed Theresa Bilson
boxed the compass in respect of sensations, the needle, as may be noted,
invariably quivering back to the same point--namely, righteous anger
against Damaris. For was not that high-spirited maiden's imperviousness
to influence and defiance of authority--her, Theresa's, influence and
authority--the mainspring of all this disastrous complication? Theresa
found it convenient to believe so, and whip herself up to almost frantic
determination in that belief. It was so perfectly clear. All the more
clear because her informant, Mary, evidently did not share her belief.
Mary's account of to-day's most vexatious transactions betrayed
partizanship and prejudice, such as might be expected from an uneducated
person, offering--as Theresa assured herself--a pertinent example of the
workings of "the servant mind." Nevertheless uneasy suspicion dogged her,
a haunting though unformulated dread that other persons--one person above
all others--might endorse Mary's prejudices rather than her own, so
reasonably based, conviction.

"If only Mr. Patch had been in there'd have been somebody to depend on,"
the woman told her, recounting the anxious search after vanished Damaris.
"But he'd driven into Marychurch of course, starting ever so early
because of the parcels he had your orders to call for at the several
shops, before meeting the train. And the gardeners had left work on
account of the wet; so we'd nobody to send to make e