ack to the fire and asked what o'clock it was. Evan looked. They had
an hour yet; but it was an hour they could make little use of. The
night was gone. They stood side by side on the hearth, Evan's arm round
her; now and then repeating something which had been already spoken of;
really endeavouring to make the most of the mere fact of being
together. But the minutes went too fast. Again and again Diana went to
the window; the second time saw, with that nameless pang at her heart,
that the eastern horizon was taking the grey, grave light of coming
dawn. Mr. Knowlton went out then presently, saddled his horse, and
brought him out to the fence, all ready. For a few minutes they waited
yet, and watched the grey light creeping up; then, before anything was
clearly discernible through the dusky gloom, the last farewell was
taken; Evan mounted and walked his horse softly away from the door.

CHAPTER XII.

THE ASHES OF THE FIRE.

Diana sat down with her face in her hands, and was still. She felt like
a person stunned. It was very still all around her. The fire gently
breathed and snapped; the living presence that had been there was gone.
A great feeling of loneliness smote her. But there was leisure for few
tears just then; and too high-wrought a state of the nerves to seek
much indulgence in them. A little while, and Josiah would be there with
his pails of milk; there was something to be done first.

And quick, as another look from the window assured her. Things were
becoming visible out of doors. Diana roused herself, though every
movement had to be with pain, and went about her work. It was hard to
move the chair in which Evan had been sitting; it was hard to move the
table around which they had been so happy; even that little trace of
last night could not be kept. Evan's cup, Evan's plate, the bit of
bread he had left on it, Diana's fingers were dilatory and unwilling in
dealing with them. But then she roused herself and dallied no longer.
Table and cups and eatables were safely removed; the kitchen brushed
up, and the table set for breakfast: the fire made in the outer stove,
and the kettle put on; though the touch of the kettle hurt her fingers,
remembering when she had touched it last. Every tell-tale circumstance
was put out of the way, and the night of watching locked up among the
most precious stores of Diana's memory. She opened the lean-to door
then.

The morning was rising fair. Clouds and wind had