t dry-eyed. But for several
hours afterwards, on an evening of tempest, she had vanished out of ken,
on the mountainside; coming back as night fell, her hair and clothes,
dripping with rain, her cheeks glowing from her battle with the storm,
her eyes strangely bright.

Her answers to her guardian's letters had been, to Lucy's way of
thinking, rather cruelly brief; at least after the first letter written
in her own room, and posted by herself. Thenceforward, only a few
post-cards, laid with Lucy's letters, for her or any one else to read, if
they chose. And meanwhile Lucy was tolerably sure that she was slowly but
resolutely making her own plans for the months ahead.

The little diary contained also the entry of Geoffrey French's visit--a
long week-end, during which as far as Lucy could remember, Helena and he
had never ceased "chaffing" from morning till night, and Helena had
certainly never given him any opportunity for love-making. She, Lucy, had
had a few short moments alone with him, moments in which his gaiety had
dropped from him, like a ragged cloak, and a despondent word or two had
given her a glimpse of the lover he was not permitted to be, beneath the
role of friend he was tired of playing. He was coming again soon. Helena
had neither invited nor repelled him. Whereas she had peremptorily bidden
Peter Dale for this particular Sunday, and he had thrown over half a
dozen engagements to obey her.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Friend. Is Miss Pitstone at home?"

The speaker was a shaggy old fellow in an Inverness cape and an ancient
wide-awake, carrying a portfolio and a camp-stool. He had stopped in his
walk outside the open window, and his disappointed look searched the inn
parlour for a person who was not there.

"Oh, Mr. McCready, I'm so sorry!--but Miss Pitstone is out, and I don't
know when she will be back."

The artist undid his portfolio, and laid a half-finished sketch--a sketch
of Helena's--on the window-sill.

"Will you kindly give her this? I have corrected it--made some notes on
the side. Do you think Miss Helena will be likely to be sketching
to-morrow?"

"I'm afraid I can't promise for her. She seems to like walking better
than anything else just now."

"Yes, she's a splendid walker," said the old man, with a sigh. "I envy
her strength. Well, if she wants me, she knows where to find me--just
beyond that bend there." He pointed to the river.

"I'll tell her--and I'll give her the sketch. Good-b