nd not with her
husband, I suppose she could not have had much affection for him,--I
could not possibly hear any more of the young man. There were no other
relations, and I did not even know what part of the world he was in. Nor
should I have thought it advisable to write to him if I had, unless it
had been a brief letter of consolation as from a much older woman, which
I was. But even with age I do not think a correspondence between men and
women desirable, unless they are related, especially with Mrs. Barclay's
novels so widely read. Not for my own sake, of course, as I do not think
I am easily given to absurd notions. But one never knows what ideas a
young man may not get into his head. And now, dear child, I must dress.
Maunder has been sighing for the last ten minutes, and I know what that
means. And you'll be late yourself, if you don't go."

Much later in the evening, Trix, in a far corner of the drawing-room with
a novel, found herself again pondering deeply on her discovery.

She was absolutely and entirely certain that the man with the wheelbarrow
was none other than Antony Gray, the boy with whom she had played in her
childhood. She remembered now that his face had been oddly familiar to
her at the time, though, being unable to put any name to him, she had
looked upon it merely as a chance likeness. But since he was Antony Gray,
what was he doing at Chorley Old Hall?

Her first impulse had been to write to the Duchessa, tell her of her
certainty, and ask her to find out any particulars she could regarding
the man. She had abandoned that idea, in view of the fact that she would
have to say where she had met him, which would very probably lead to
questions difficult to answer.

One thing she would do, however, and she gave a little inward laugh at
the thought, when she was next at Byestry, if she saw him again, she
would ask him if he remembered the pond and the pheasants' eggs. It would
be amusing to see his amazed face.

CHAPTER XXVIII

FOR THE DAY ALONE

Probably there are times in the life of every human being, when the only
possible method of living at all, would seem to be by living in the
day--nay, in the moment--alone, resolutely shutting one's eyes to the
mistakes behind one, refusing to look at the blankness ahead. And this is
more especially the case when the mistakes and the blankness have been
caused by our own actions. There is not even stolid philosophy to come to
our aid, a shrug