eginnings to my fight. But it isn't
that, not exactly. I shall have courage enough when it comes to the
time. But just now it is hurting me so to hurt Aunt Janet; I had not
reckoned on that, I did not know that you could kill love so quickly."

"You can't," Miss Abercrombie answered. "If her love were dead all this
would not be hurting her any more."

So Joan packed up her trunks again, fighting all the time against the
impulse which prompted her to do nothing but cry and cry and cry. The
chill of Aunt Janet's attitude seemed to have descended on the whole
household. They could have no idea of the real trouble, but they felt
the shadow and moved about limply, talking to each other in whispers.
Miss Janet was reputed to be ill, anyway, she was keeping her room, and
Miss Joan was packing up to go away; two facts which did not work in
well together. No wonder the servants were restless and unhappy.

Uncle John met Joan on her way upstairs late that evening. His usually
grave, uninterested face wore an expression of absolute amazement, it
almost amounted to fear.

"Will you come into my room for a minute," he said, holding the door
open for her to pass.

Once inside, he turned and stared at her; she had never imagined his
face could have worn such an expression. She saw him trying to speak,
groping for words, as it were, and she stayed tongue-tied before him.
Her day had been so tumultuous that now she was tired out, indifferent
as to what might happen next.

"Your aunt has told me," he said at last. "I find it almost impossible
to believe, and in a way I blame myself. We should never have allowed
you to go away as we did." He paused to breathe heavily. "I am an old
man, but not too old to make a fight for our honour. Will you give me
this man's name and address, Joan?"

She had not paused to think that they would look on it as their honour
which she had played with. His rather pitiful dignity hurt her more than
anything that had gone before.

"I cannot do that," she answered; "there is nothing exactly that you
could blame him for. I did what I did out of my own free will and
because I thought it was right."

He still stared at her. "Right," he repeated; "you use the word in a
strange sense, surely; and as for blaming him"--she saw how suddenly his
hands clenched, the knuckles standing out white--"if you will let me
know where to find him, I will settle that between us."

Joan moved towards the door. "I cannot,"