oach, as might have
made even an uninterested by-stander tremble.

Had Erica made any appeal, had she even begun to cry, his chivalry would
have been touched; he would have recognized her weakness, and regained
his self control. But she was not weak, she was strong she was his other
self gone over to the opposite side; that was what almost maddened him.
The torrent bore down upon her, and she spoke not a word, but just
sat still and endured. Only, as the words grew more bitter and more
wounding, her lips grew white, her hands were locked more tightly
together. At last it ended.

"You have cheated yourself into this belief," said Raeburn, "you have
given me the most bitter grief and disappointment of my whole life. Have
you anything else you wish to say to me?"

"Nothing," replied Erica, not daring to venture more; for, if she had
tried to speak, she knew she must have burst into tears.

But there was as much pain expressed in her voice as she spoke that one
word as there had been in all her father's outburst. It appealed to
him at once. He said no more, but stepped out of the French window, and
began to pace to an fro under the veranda.

Erica did not stir; she was like one crushed. Sad and harassed as
her life had been, it yet seemed to her that she had never known such
indescribably bitter pain. The outside world looked bright and sunshiny;
she could see the waves breaking on the shore, while beyond, sailing
out into the wide expanse was a brown-sailed fishing boat. Every now
and then her vision was interrupted by a tall, dark figure pacing to
and fro; every now and then the sunlight glinted on snow-white hair, and
then a fresh stab of pain awoke in her heart.

The brown-sailed fishing boat dwindled into a tiny dark spot on the
horizon, the sea tossed and foamed and sparked in the sunshine. Erica
turned away; she could not bear to look at it, for just now it seemed to
her merely the type of the terrible separation which had arisen between
herself and her father. She felt as if she were being borne away in the
little fishing boat, while he was left on the land, and the distance
between them slowly widened and widened.

All through that grievous conversation she had held in her hand a little
bit of mignonette. She had held it unconsciously; it was withered
and drooping, its sweetness seemed to her now sickly and hateful. She
identified it with her pain, and years after the smell of mignonette was
intolerable to