icity of
it?--the books, the flowers, and the few priceless things, drawings or
terra-cottas, brought from the cottage, and changed every few weeks by
Farrell himself, who would arrive with them under his arm, or in his
pockets, and take them back in like manner.

The colour flooded into Nelly's face. She dropped it in her hands with a
low cry. An agony seized her. She loathed herself.

Then springing up passionately she began to pace the narrow floor, her
slender arms and hands locked behind her.

Sir William was coming that very evening. So was Cicely, who was to be
her own guest at the farm, while Marsworth, so she heard, was to have
the spare room at the cottage.

She had not seen William Farrell for some time--for what counted, at
least, as some time in their relation; not since that evening before
Bridget went away--more than a fortnight. But it was borne in upon her
that she had heard from him practically every day. There, in the drawer
of her writing-table, lay the packet of his letters. She looked for
them now morning after morning, and if they failed her, the day seemed
blank. Anybody might have read them--or her replies. None the less
Farrell's letters were the outpouring of a man's heart and mind to the
one person with whom he felt himself entirely at ease. The endless
problems and happenings of the great hospital to which he was devoting
more and more energy, and more and more wealth; the incidents and
persons that struck him; his loves and hates among the staff or the
patients; the humour or the pity of the daily spectacle;--it was all
there in his letters, told in a rich careless English that stuck to the
memory. Nelly was accustomed to read and re-read them.

Yes, and she was proud to receive them!--proud that he thought so much
of her opinion and cared so much for her sympathy. But _why_ did he
write to her, so constantly, so intimately?--what was the real motive of
it all?

At last, Nelly asked herself the question. It was fatal of course. So
long as no question is asked of Lohengrin--who, what, and whence he
is--the spell holds, the story moves. But examine it, as we all know,
and the vision fades, the gleam is gone.

She passed rapidly, and almost with terror, into a misery of remorse.
What had she been doing with this kindest and best of men? Allowing him
to suppose that after a little while she would be quite ready to forget
George and be his wife? That threw her into a fit of helpless cryi