e with the control of his fate. The injury to her pride was
healed, and in the thought that perforce she must answer with a final
'No', she found at first more of solace than of distress.

Subsidence of physical suffering allowed her to forget this emotion, in
its nature unavowable. She could think of the news Godwin sent, could
torment herself with interpretations of Marcella Moxey's behaviour, and
view in detail the circumstances which enabled Godwin to urge a formal
suit. Among her various thoughts there recurred frequently a regret
that this letter had not reached her, like the other two, unobserved.
Her father had now learnt that she was in correspondence with the
disgraced man; to keep silence would be to cause him grave trouble; yet
how much better if fortune had only once more favoured her, so that the
story might have remained her secret, from beginning to end.

For was not this the end?----

At the usual time she went to the drawing-room, and somehow succeeded
in conversing as though nothing had disturbed her. Mr Warricombe was
not seen till dinner. When he came forth, Sidwell noticed his air of
preoccupation, and that he avoided addressing her. The evening asked
too much of her self-command; she again withdrew, and only came back
when the household was ready for retiring. In bidding her father
goodnight, she forced herself to meet his gaze; he looked at her with
troubled inquiry, and she felt her cheek redden.

'Do you want to get rid of me?' asked Sylvia, with wonted frankness,
when her friend drew near.

'No. Let us go to the glass-house.'

Up there on the roof Sidwell often found a retreat when her thoughts
were troublesome. Fitfully, she had resumed her water-colour drawing,
but as a rule her withdrawal to the glass-house was for reading or
reverie. Carrying a small lamp, she led the way before Sylvia, and they
sat down in the chairs which on one occasion had been occupied by
Buckland Warricombe and Peak.

The wind, rarely silent in this part of Devon, blew boisterously from
the south-west. A far-off whistle, that of a train speeding up the
valley on its way from Plymouth, heightened the sense of retirement and
quietude always to be enjoyed at night here under the stars.

'Have you been thinking over my suggestion?' asked Sylvia, when there
had been silence awhile.

'No,' was the murmured reply.

'Something has happened, I think.'

'Yes. I should like to tell you, Sylvia, but'----

'But'---