t consciousness behind it was too much for
it. It fell like a withered leaf.

Farrell got up to go. Nelly too rose, trembling, to her feet. He took
her hand.

'Don't leave us,' he repeated, softly. 'You are our little saint--you
help us by just living. Don't attempt things too hard for you. You'll
kill yourself, and then----'

She looked at him mutely, held by the spell of his eyes.

'Well then,' he finished, abruptly, 'there won't be much left for one
man to live for. Good-night.'

He was gone, and she was left standing in the firelight, a small,
bewildered creature.

'What shall I do?' she was saying to herself, 'Oh, what ought I to do?'

She sank down on the floor, and hid her face against a chair.
Helplessly, she wished that Hester would come!--someone wise and strong
who would tell her what was right. The thought of supplanting George, of
learning to forget him, of letting somebody else take his place in her
heart, was horrible--even monstrous--to her. Yet she did not know how
she would ever find the strength to make Farrell suffer. His devotion
appealed--not to any answering passion in her--there was none--but to an
innate lovingness, that made it a torment to her to refuse to love and
be loved. Her power of dream, of visualisation, shewed him to her alone
and unhappy; when, perhaps, she might still--without harm--have been a
help to him--have shewn him her gratitude. She felt herself wavering and
retreating; seeking, as usual, the easiest path out of her great
dilemma. Must she either be disloyal to her George?--her dead, her
heroic George!--or unkind to this living man, whose unselfish devotion
had stood between her and despair? After all, might it not still go on?
She could protect herself. She was not afraid.

But she _was_ afraid! She was in truth held by the terror of her own
weakness, and Farrell's strength, as she lay crouching by the fire.

Outside the wind was rising. Great clouds were coming up from the
south-west. The rain had begun. Soon it was lashing the windows, and
pouring from the eaves of the old farmhouse.

Nelly went back to her work; and the wind and rain grew wilder as the
hours passed. Just as she was thinking wearily of going to bed, there
were sounds of wheels outside.

Bridget? so late! Nelly had long since given her up. What a night on
which to face the drive from Windermere! Poor horse!--poor man!

Yes, it was certainly Bridget! As Nelly half rose, she heard the harsh,
d