g thoughts like a black scroll in a gay vesture. It
pained and troubled her, though she did not consider why it should do
so. After the meeting was over John was very weary; but he would not
go to bed until he had eaten supper. He "wanted his little maid to sit
near him for half-an-hour," he said. And he held her hand in his own
hand, and gave her such looks of perfect love and blessed her so
solemnly and sweetly when at length he left her that she began to sob
again and to stand on tiptoe that she might throw her arms around his
neck and touch his lips with hers once more.

Her kisses were wet with her tears, and they made John's heart soft
and gentle as a baby's. "She be the fondest little maid," he said to
his wife. "She be the fondest little maid! I could take a whole year
to praise her, Joan, and then I could not say enough."

In reality, the last two days, with their excess of vital emotions,
had worn Denas out. Never before had the life into which she was born
looked so unlovely to her. She preferred the twitter and twaddle of
Priscilla's workroom to the intense realities of an existence always
verging on eternity. She dared to contrast those large, heroic
fishers, with their immovable principles and their constant fight with
all the elemental forces for their daily bread, with Roland Tresham;
and to decide that Roland's delicate beauty, pretty, persuasive
manners, and fashionable clothing were vastly superior attributes. So
she was glad when the morning came, for she was weary of enduring what
need no longer be endured.

It still rained, but she put on her best clothing, and Joan was not
pleased at her for doing so. She thought she might come home some
night when the rain was over and change her dress for the visit to
Burrell Court. This difference of opinion made their last meal
together a silent one; for John was in a deep sleep and Joan would not
have him disturbed. Denas just opened the door and stood a moment
looking at the large, placid face on the white pillow. As she turned
away, it seemed as if she cut a piece out of her heart; she had a
momentary spasm of real physical pain.

Joan had not yet recovered from her night of terror. Her face was
grey, her eyes heavy, her heart still beating and aching with some
unintelligible sense of wrong or grief. And she looked at her child
with such a dumb, sorrowful inquiry that Denas sat down near her and
put her head on her mother's breast and asked: "What is it