. These things had been much
talked of in the town, and it would have been a little distinction to
Denas to have seen and handled them. Perhaps, also, there had been, in
her deepest consciousness, a hope that Elizabeth had brought her some
special gift--some trinket that she could be proud of all her life and
keep in memory of their early friendship.

But Elizabeth showed her nothing and gave her nothing; moreover, when
Denas spoke of the beautiful morning robe she wore, Elizabeth frowned
slightly and answered with an evident disinclination to discuss the
subject, "Yes, it is beautiful." For though Elizabeth did not analyse
the feeling, she was annoyed at even a verbal return to a time when
gowns of every kind had been a consideration worth while discussing
with one whose taste and skill would help to fashion them. Poverty
casts only shadows on memory, and few people like to stand voluntarily
again in them.

About noon there was a visitor, and Elizabeth received her in another
room. She made an apology to Denas, but the girl, left to herself,
began to be angry with herself. She could hear Elizabeth and her
caller merrily discussing the affairs of their own set, and Elizabeth
had quite a different voice; it was sympathetic, ready to break into
laughter, full of confidential tones. Denas remembered this voice
well. She had once been used to hear it and to blend her own with it.
Her heart burned when she called to mind her old friend's excessive
civility; her hardly concealed weariness; the real coldness of feeling
which no pleasant words could warm. There was no longer any sympathy
between them; there was not even any interest which could take the
place of sympathy. Elizabeth did not really care whether Denas was
offended or not, but she had a conscience, and it urged her to be kind
and just. And she did try to obey the order, but when orders
perversely go against inclination they do not obtain a cheerful
service.

Denas felt and thought quickly: "I am not wanted here. I ought to
go away, and I will go." These resolutions were arrived at by
apprehension, not by any definable process of reasoning. She touched
a bell, asked for her hat and cloak, left a message for Elizabeth,
and went away from Burrell Court at once.

The rapid walk to St. Penfer relieved her feelings. "I have been
wounded to-day," she sobbed, "just as really as if Elizabeth had flung
a stone at me or stabbed me with a knife. I am heart-hurt. I am sorr