th felt hurt and angry and both spoke
in very affectionate terms, followed. It lasted until they reached the
great city which stretches out her hands to every other city. Roland
had secured rooms in a very dull, respectable house in Queen's Square,
Bloomsbury. He had often stayed there when his finances did not admit
of West End luxuries, and the place was suitable for many other
reasons.

Then followed two perfectly happy weeks for Denas. She had written a
few lines to her parents while waiting for a train at Exeter, and she
then resolved not to permit herself to grieve about their grief,
because it could do them no good and it would seriously worry and
annoy Roland. And Roland was so loving and generous. At his command
modistes and milliners turned his plebeian bride into a fashionable,
and certainly into a very lovely lady. She had more pretty costumes
than she had ever dreamed of; she had walking-hats and dress-hats, and
expensive furs, and she grew more beautiful with each new garment.
They went to theatres and operas; they went riding and walking; they
had cosey little dinners at handsome restaurants; and Roland never
once named money, or singing, or anything likely to spoil the charm of
the life they were leading.

During this happy interval Denas did not quite forget her parents. She
wrote to them once, and she very often wondered through whom and in
what manner they received the news of their loss. It was her own hand
which dealt the blow. Miss Priscilla really thought Denas had gone
back to her home, and she resolved on the following Sunday afternoon
to walk down to the fishing village and "make it up" with her. About
Wednesday, however, there began to be floating rumours of the truth.
Several people called on Priscilla and asked after the whereabouts of
Denas; and the landlord of the Black Lion was talking freely of the
large bill Roland had left unsettled there. But none of these rumours
reached the ears of the fisher-folk, nor were they likely to do so
until the St. Penfer _Weekly News_ appeared. The first three days of
the week had been so foggy that no boat had cared to risk a sail over
the bar; but on Thursday morning all was clear, and the men were eager
to get out to sea. John Penelles was hastening toward his boat, when
he heard a voice calling him. It was the postman, and he turned and
went to meet him.

"Here be a letter for you, John Penelles. Exeter postmark. I came a
bit out of my way with it