f others, loving, giving, attempting the impossible in the way
of goodness all round. 'Be not righteous over much'--there's a text to
that effect in the Scriptures, Mr. March, isn't there? Preach a good,
rattling sermon on it next Sunday to Lady Calmady, if you want to keep
her here a bit longer. Nature abhors a vacuum. Granted. But nature
abhors excess, even of virtue. And punishes it just as harshly as
excess of vice.--Yes, I tell you, she's worn herself out."

Miss St. Quentin dropped into a chair and sat bowed together, her hands
on her knees, her feet rather far apart. The brim of her hat, pulled
down in front to let the rain run off, partially concealed her face.
She was not sorry, for a movement of defective courage was upon her,
evidence of which she preferred to keep to herself. Julius March
remained silent. And this she resented slightly, for she badly wanted
somebody to say something, either vindictive or consolatory. Then,
indignation getting the better alike of reticence and charity, she
exclaimed:--

"It is unpardonable. It ought to be impossible one person should have
power to kill another by inches, like this, with impunity."

Ludovic Quayle had sauntered into the room behind Julius March. He too
was wet and dirty, but such trifles in no wise affected the
completeness of his urbanity. His long neck directed forward, as in
polite inquiry, he advanced to the little group by the fire, and took
up his station beside Honoria's chair.

"Pardon me, my dear Miss St. Quentin," he asked sweetly, "but why the
allusions to murder? What is unpardonable?"

"Sir Richard Calmady's conduct," she answered shortly. She threw back
her head and addressed Dr. Knott. "It is so detestably unjust. What
possible quarrel has he with her, after all?"

"Ah! that--that--lies very deep. A thing, perhaps, only a man, or a
mother, can quite comprehend," the doctor answered slowly.

Honoria's straight eyebrows drew together. She objected to extenuating
circumstances in this connection, yet, as she admitted, reason usually
underlay all Dr. Knott's statements. She divined, moreover, that
reason, just now, touched upon matters inconveniently intimate. She
abstained, therefore, from protest or comment. But, since feminine
emotion, even in the least weakly of the sex, is bound to find an
outlet, she turned upon poor Mr. Quayle.

"He is your friend," she said. "The rest of us are helpless. You ought
to take measures. You ought to sugg