you could
banish me entirely if you pleased. A word from you would do it. But it
would be hideously cruel of you--and abominally unjust! However, I know
your power--over her--and so over me. And so I made up my mind it was no
good trying to conceal anything from you. I've told you straight out. I
love her--and because I love her--you may be perfectly certain I shall
protect her!'

Silence again. Farrell had turned towards the open window. When Hester
turned her eyes she saw his handsome profile, his Nibelung's head and
beard against the stony side of the fell. A man with unfair advantages,
it seemed to her, if he chose to put out his strength;--the looks of a
king, a warm heart, a sympathetic charm, felt quite as much by men as by
women, and ability which would have distinguished him in any career, if
his wealth had not put the drag on industry. But at the moment he was
not idle. He was more creditably and fully employed then she had ever
known him. His hospital and his pride in it were in fact Nelly Sarratt's
best safeguard. Whatever he wished, he could not possibly spend all his
time at her feet.

Hester tried one more argument--the conventional.

'Have you ever really asked yourself, Willy, how it will look to the
outside world--what people will think? It is all very well to scoff at
Mrs. Grundy, but the poor child has no natural guardian. We both agree
her sister is no use to her.'

'Let them think!'--he turned to her again with energy--'so long as you
and I _know_. Besides--I shan't compromise her in any way. I shall be
most careful not to do so.'

'Look at this room!' said Hester drily. She herself surveyed it.
Farrell's laugh had a touch of embarrassment.

'Well?--mayn't anyone give things to a sick child? Hush!--here she is!'

He drew further back into the room, and they both watched a little
figure in a serge dress crossing the footbridge beyond the garden. Then
she came into the garden, and up the sloping lawn, her hat dangling in
her hand, and the spring sunshine upon her. Hester thought of the
preceding June; of the little bride, with her springing step, and
radiant eyes. Nelly, as she was now, seemed to her the typical
figure--or rather, one of the two typical figures of the war--the man in
action, the woman in bereavement. Sorrow had marked her; bitten into her
youth, and blurred it. Yet it had also dignified and refined her. She
was no less lovely.

As she approached, she saw them and waved to t