t times I fancied his change was toward me personally, and I
thought it curiously unlike the man to cherish any sort of unkindness
over an accident. But then, again, at odd times, I watched him with
other men among our now considerable train, and the conclusion was borne
in upon me that the change had nothing to do with me, but was general in
its character. He was more stern, less cheery, and far more reserved
than before.

And this I thought most strange, for it seemed to me that, even though
Constance and my chief might have agreed that nothing like an engagement
between them must come till our work was done, yet the understanding
which could lead to the kiss I had seen was surely warrant enough for a
change of quite another character than this one. I thought of it
whenever I took Constance's hand in greeting her; and I think my eyes
must sometimes have told her what my heart always felt: that in me, this
right to do as Crondall had done would have seemed an entry into
Paradise, let circumstances and conditions be what they might. And with
such a thought I would recall what, to me, would never be the least of
Black Saturday's events: that once Constance Grey had lain in my
arms--unconsciously, it was true; and that upon the same occasion I had
kissed her, and known in that moment that never again could she be as
other women for me.

I was often tempted to speak to Constance of the change I saw in John
Crondall, and one day in Carlisle I yielded to the temptation. At one
and the same time I both craved and dreaded definite news of the
understanding between the woman I loved and the man I liked and
respected more than any other. I wanted Constance's confidence; yet I
felt as though my life would be stripped bare by definite knowledge that
she was betrothed. So, moth-like, I hovered about the perilous subject,
with a nervous endeavour to lend natural composure to my voice.

"Do you notice any particular change in John Crondall of late?" I asked.
And it seemed to me that Constance flushed slightly as she answered me:

"Change? No. Has he changed?"

"Well, he does not seem to be nearly so happy as----" And there I broke
away from a dangerous comparison, and substituted--"as he was awhile
back."

"Really? But what makes you think that?"

"I fancy he is much more reserved--less frank and more preoccupied; not
so jolly, in fact, as he always was. I have thought so for several
weeks."

"I am sorry, very sorry; and I