placed it on the mantel piece, then
fell back in his chair again and thought.

After all, might not the visit to Greyshot be a very good thing for her?
Of course she would never dream of living with her aunt, would indeed be
as angry at the proposal as he had been. But might not a visit of two
or three weeks open her eyes to her new position, and prove to her that
among Christians such people as the Osmonds were only in the minority!
He knew enough of society to be able to estimate the position it would
accord to Erica. He knew that her sensitiveness would be wounded again
and again, that, that her honesty would be shocked, her belief in the
so-called Christian world shaken. Might not all this be salutary? And
yet he did not like the thought; he could not bear sending her out alone
to fight her own battles, could not endure the consciousness that she
was bearing his reproach. Oh, why had this miserable, desolating change
ever occurred? At this very moment she was making public profession of
a faith which could only place her in the most trying of positions;
at this very moment she was pledging herself to a life of bondage
and trouble; while he, standing aside, could see all the dangers and
difficulties of her future, and could do absolutely nothing!

It reminded him of one of the most horrible moments of his life. Walking
up Regent Street one afternoon, years ago, Erica, walking with Mrs.
Craigie on the opposite side, had caught sight of him, and regardless
of the fourfold chain of carriages, had rushed across to him with the
fearless daring of a six-year-old child, to whom the danger of horses'
hoofs was a mere nothing when compared with the desire to get a walk
with her father. His heart beat quicker even now as he thought of the
paralyzing dread of long ago, nor had Miss Erica ever been scolded for
her loving rashness; in his relief he had been unable to do anything
but clasp the little hand in his as though nothing should ever part them
again.

But her loving disregard of all danger and difficulty was no longer
inspired by love of him, but by love of what Raeburn considered a myth
and a delusion.

In that lay the real sting. He courage, her suffering, all seemed to him
wasted, altogether on the wrong side. Once more black gloom fell upon
him. The room grew dusk then dark, but still he remained motionless.

Again he was interrupted by a knock at his door.

"Signor Civita wished to speak to him."

He braced hi