of being on an enjoyable picnic
contrasted oddly with any reference to such banished topics as death
and sorrow.

'I consider that Mrs. Ogilvie is one of the most reserved women I ever
met,' said the canon, proceeding to give an epitome of a character
which he thought he--and perhaps only he--understood. 'She is
impulsive yet cautious, clever yet light-minded; for a woman her
intelligence is quite above the ordinary run, and yet she is often
hopelessly difficult to convince.' He leaned forward on the table
looking handsome and dignified, and his clean-shaven face had an
appearance more clever than was quite justified by his attainments.

'I am sure that Mrs. Ogilvie is a woman of deep affections,' said Lady
Falconer, whose tongue seemed framed for nothing but kind speeches.

'I remember,' said Sir John, 'how struck my wife and I were, that year
we met her in Spain, by her devotion to her son. It seemed to us to
have almost a touch of tragedy in it; but that, of course, is now
explained by hearing that she had just lost her only other child.'

'Poor Mrs. Ogilvie!' said Mrs. Wrottesley.

The words seemed incongruous. Mrs. Ogilvie, with her contempt for
pity, her sumptuous manner of living and of dressing, was hardly an
object for compassion; and Canon Wrottesley felt that his wife's
commiseration was out of place, although he was far too kind to say so
in public.

There was a lull suddenly in the noise of the race-course; the
bookmakers' harsh shouts ceased, and even conversation stopped for a
moment, for the last race had begun.

The last race was an interesting event. It was a steeplechase for
gentleman riders only, and friends of the riders were standing up, with
field-glasses to their eyes, watching with absorbed attention the
horses, which were still a great distance off on the other side of the
course. Jane was standing by Peter. Kitty Sherard was quite near; she
was not looking through field-glasses as the others were doing, but
stood leaning lightly on the balcony of the stand with her two hands
clasped on the wooden rail in front of her.

'Can you see who is leading?' said Jane, and received no answer to her
question, and then she saw that Miss Sherard was not looking at the
racecourse at all. Her face was white, and her hands, which were
clasped on the wooden rail before her, had a strained look about them,
and showed patches of white where the slender fingers were tightly
pressed on the delic