in and pleasure at once. Then, without looking again, slowly,
deliberately, as all her movements had been made, Diana withdrew from
the room; not bearing, perhaps, to stay and have him leave her, or
doubting of her power to make him go, or unable to endure anything more
for this time. She left him standing there, and slowly went up the
stairs. But the moment she got to her room she stopped, and stood with
her hands pressed upon her heart, listening; every particle of colour
vanishing from her face, and her eyes taking a strained look of
despair; listening to the footsteps that, also slowly, now went through
the hall. When they went out and had quitted the house, she flew to the
window. She watched to see the stately figure go along the little walk
and out at the gate; she had hardly dared to look at him down-stairs.
Now her eye sought out every well-known line and trait with an
eagerness like the madness of thirst. Yes, he had grown broader in the
shoulders; his frame was developed; he had become more manly, and so
even finer in appearance than ever. Without meaning it, Diana drew
comparisons. How well he walked! what a firm, sure, graceful gait! How
beloved of old time was the officer's undress coat, and the little cap
which reminded Diana so inevitably of the time when it was at home on
her table or lying on a chair near! Only for a minute or two she tasted
the bitter-sweet pang of associations; and then cap and wearer were
passed from her sight.

CHAPTER XXXII.

WIND AND TIDE.

How that night went by it would be useless to try to tell. Some things
cannot be described. A loosing of all the bands of law and order in the
material world we call chaos; and once in a while the mental nature of
some poor mortal falls for a time into a like condition. No hold of
anything, not even of herself; no clear sense of anything, except of
the disorder and pain; no hope at the moment that could fasten on
either world, the present or the future; no will to lay hold of the
unruly forces within her and reduce them to obedience. An awful night
for Diana, such as she never had spent, nor in its full measure would
ever spend again. Nevertheless, through all the confusion, under all
the tumult, there was one fixed point; indeed, it was the point round
which all the confusion worked, and which Diana was dimly conscious of
all the while; one point of action. At the time she could not steady
herself to look at it; but when the da