n his behaviour or his
actions. Excitement, yes, but quite controlled; and above all truth
and sincerity and passionate devotion. There was no mistaking that.
Whatever might be the explanation of the extraordinary happenings of
the evening, one thing was beyond all argument, beyond all doubt, and
that was the love this man bore to--whom? The woman whom he imagined
her to be--who was it? Philippa Harford! But _she_ was Philippa
Harford. The name was not so common that Philippa Harfords were to be
found readily to be confounded with one another. And the
portrait!--there was the very heart of the mystery--the primrose
gown--the violets. What was it he had said? "Love's violets!" and
"The dark, dark shadows since they had met." And
then--"yesterday,"--he had said they had met yesterday. What could it
mean?

She pressed her hands closer against her aching temples. What was the
secret of this extraordinary house? Was it all unreal? Had it never
happened at all? Was it supernatural--a fevered vision of the
brain--an apparition haunting the scenes of the past? Impossible!

And the woman? She at all events had been tangible and real. Why had
she looked at her with eyes that held hatred--nothing more nor less
than hatred, bitter and undisguised?

Who could she ask? whom could she turn to? For a moment she had a wild
impulse to peal the bell and call for--whom? Somebody--anybody--to
speak--to tell her she was awake--alive. Marion? but Marion was not
here. Marion had gone with the big soldier husband whose mere presence
in the house would, the girl felt, have been an assurance of security,
of sanity. Violets! What had Marion said? "There is a sad story
attached to violets at Bessacre." But she had not told her what it
was. Why had she left her? And then she remembered the earlier events
of the evening--Dickie--his illness--the telegram. It all seemed so
distant. Marion had been in trouble and had left her. Then gradually
the thought of her friend's anxiety had the result of restoring her to
a more normal condition of mind.

She rose to her feet and prepared herself mechanically for her bed.
When she laid her head at last upon the cool whiteness of her pillow,
and closed her weary eyes, sleep was far from her. She saw only one
face, heard only one voice. "Such love as mine
must--calling--calling--draw you to me at the last. My sweet! my
sweet!" Oh, the pity of it! the pity of it!

Was it a f