Behind Shuttered Windows.

Auckland Star, Volume XXXIX, Issue 249, 17 October 1908, Page 13

Behind Shuttered Windows.

(All rights reserved.)

BY ALICE AND CLAUDE ASKEW. i thnrs of "The 'Shulamite.'" "The Premier's Daughter." ".Tennefer Pontefract,"-" Authors or __ Tiic H()use Xcxt Door „ .. T||e BJue Diamond -, &c

I the matter of that. Jt is two full months since you came home from France, you know, and we have met pretty constantly since then. But I'm quite ready to wait a bit longer, since you prefer it so- " " ' "Oh. but I'm not the least likely to change my mind," interrupted the "g'H, hurriedly. "Can't we be good friends, jMr Mayne, without there being any thought of love between us?" The rather artificial smile into which i the man bad twi.-ted his lips disappeared. "Iα there anyone else?" he a.sked, his voice harsh, and with underlying roughness. "Someone over in France whom you may have taken a fancy to?" (llancing down at the girl, however, as . Iμ- spoke, he told himself that this was hardly likely. Millicent was, to all in--lents and purposes, a but recently emancipated schoolgirl. She was, at the most, some nineteen years old. "1 don't see that you have any right to ask mc that question."' she returned, her brown eyes flashing up at him. Millicent was not the sort of girl to be bullied. She hail plenty of strength of character, clearly enough denoted by her firm lips and chin. She was slim and -light, but there was.little of the schoolgirl about her. She had cultivated the artistic side of her temperament—her great love for music—and this had. perhaps, led to an early development of her nature. One could'guess at her taste for art in every form from her straight and clear-cut features, from her long and sensitive fingers, from her delicatelyformed hands. She had a high forehead, and her dark brown hair—hair that in Mime lights glowed from chestnut to red—was lifted well back from it, and fastened in a coil at her neck. Impetuous, impulsive, but warm-hearted, and a true friend—above all artistic—such were her chief characteristics as they bad been defined to her not very long before by a French friend who made a study of palmistry. " Is there anyone? " he persisted. She laughed a little. "If there was. I should probably keep the fact to myself. Hut since there is no one, 1 don't mind telling you μo." There was a suggestion of malice in the assertion. She wished Mr. Mayne clearly to understand that it was not because of any rival that she was rejecting his suit, that it was rather because his own personality was not agreeable to her. " 1 can assure you that 1 am quite heartwhole." she added. He drew a breath of relief, but his features did' not relax from the ugly expression which they had assumed. "That's all right." he said, drumming with his knuckle? upon the woodwork of the old boat; '" for if there's no one else I've not much fear. Millicent, that I shall win you in time." He was calling her by her Christian name, which he had never yet permitted himself to do, and she made a mental reservation to put a stop to this later on. For a moment she took the man's disappointment into consideration and made no protest. But she shook her head in answer to his observation, and then, bending over her sketch-book made profession of resuming her work. There was a short pause, during which the man continued his monotonous drumming upon the boat. At last lift broke the silence. " You know that your father wishes you to marry mc, Millicent?" he c asked. "In fact. I have the consent of both your parents." The consent of Mrs. Thurlow did not count for much, for she was. in every way, submissive to her husband. But the fact gave strength to Harold's, assertion. "I'm sure 1 don't know why they should wish it." remarked' .Millicent. with assumed lightness, beiidinp; over her book; " for, as far as 1 can make out. we are both paupers, you and J. As fwr as 1 know 1 have no money of my own. and am not likely to have any. unless, of course, my father's wonderful invention ever comes to anything."' She always spoke of Mr. Thurlow as her father, though the word often seemed an offence to her lip*. •■ And as for you."' the went on, " unless 1 am wrong, you arc just an idle man."' " 1 shall come in for a large fortune one day. though." he returned, half under his breath. "And 1 don't think there will be so very long to wait for it. either. So. a s far as that goes, you need not worry yourself. Millieent." She shrugged* her shoulders. "It makes no difference to mc." she said—"no difference whatever. But there, Mr. Mayne, I've given you my answer, and so please ilon't let Us revert to the subject. The man ro>e from his loungin? position, and stood up erect. His brow was clouded by a dark frown. '■ J'm afraid I chall have to revert to it," he said, " and that at an early date. Because 1 may as well tell you at once. Millicent, my mind is mauV up. and I .mean to make you my wife. You will see the force ■f my arguments before very long. too. Jl".-, not only that you are ineffably dull here, and that I can take you away and give you a brighter life; "it's not" only that there's no sympathy between you and your people, though those are qiiite sufficient arguments to go along with. You'll turn to mc in time. Millicent—yes, and you'll love mc, too." lie stooped over her, laying a heavy hand upon her shoulder, and keeping it there, though she shrank from him. " I tell you,"' he went on, in his slow, impressive voice, "'that it is all % arranged—all cut and dried—and you'll just have to submit —have to, because you can't help yourself. So the sooner you change your mind and begin to like mc a little, the better for all of us." Surely the man ha<J no tact to speak to her thus! How little he knew of her character! So Millicent told herself, as, flushing red, she laid her sketch-book-aside, shook herself free from her hand, and in her turn rose to her feet. " I think," she said, with all the coldness of demeanour that she could assume, " that you are making a very great mistake, Mr. Mayne. I have never been forced into doing a thing that 1 d*m't want to do. and I'm never likely to be.'" Contempt shot from her bright eyes as she fixed them upon him. "If you had any real love for mc," she went on, " you would not have dared to speak to mc iike this. And as for my own feelings. 1 think I hate you. And now tro, for 1 want lo be alone to continue my work.' , Harold Mayne hesitated a moment; and, despite herself, the girl trembled, for there was. a look j n his eyes that made her afraid. He took a step towaras her. and tben, apparently changing his mind, turned away. •• Very well, Miss Millieent,"' he said, glancing back at her over his shoulder, "we shall see. You may hate mc now, you may go on hating mc, but the day will come when you will be glfld to be my wife."

CHArTEII I. «I am sorry, Mr Maync. but I cannot you . We have known each other SVlittle while you see. and so its Thurtuw spoke her refusal rf* the rest of her little 6 peecli was evidently actuated by a deare not to give unnecessary pain. Neverthelee, in spite of the vague suggestion , that Time might remedy matters, her nind was quite made up, for Millicent W s a "irl of some force of character, and ( eeldom" went back upon a determina"shc was seated on the soft sand in ■ the shadow of an old upturned boat, and had been occupied in making a sketch of a little ruined fisherman's hut. with a not too particularly interesting background of yellow sand and grey sea. There was, in fact, very little in her surroundings to attract the eye of an artist, even one with a keener sense for the picturesque than that possessed by Millicent, Sac did not paint because the occupation gave her any special delight; she did it merely to relieve the monotony of her existence. She disliked the bleak Lancashire coast, close to which she had come to live —disliked it with keener intensity for the many happy years she had spent among kindly people in a small but cheerful French provincial town. There had been plenty of light and colour there, fcind facei, and congenial company. She had been petted and spoiled and allowed ' to indulge her passion for music to the inll measure of her heart's desire. But here, in Lancashire, the home which had never really been her home, everything was different. A long, monotonous stretch of coast; a square ugly . louse that stood up gaunt and bare in ;i garden peculiarly devoid of trees, and. . as she would have, described it herself, j aiies a-way from everywhere; for all . company the man and woman whom she . was supposed to recognise as her father and mother, for they had adopted her— , and this was all she knew of her own his- ' tory—when she was quite a mite of a giiL But having done so, they had concerned themselves no further "with her upbringing, beyond sending her away to the French town where she had passed so j many happy and contented years, dismayed and troubled only when she was recalled—a very unfrequent occurrence — to spend a week or two in England. Her ' parents by adoption were not congenial . to her, and though she honestly did her ' best to like them, she found the* tack one 1 of peculiar difficulty. ' "If only I didn't feel that they hated jut music so!" So she had sighed to her- ' self that very morning, when she had ' closed the lid of the piano, because Mrs ' Thurlow had warned her that she was in- 1 tempting her father in hLs work. It I was foj, this reason that she had solaced herself as best she could with her sketchtook, expecting to spend a lonely morning on the particular part of the shore ' which she had taken, into favour. .She had not, however, made much progress with her picture before -he had been interrupted by the advent of Harold Mayne, a young man who iva-s a friend of Silas Thurlow—indeed, one of the •very few friends that he possessed— • and the only visitor that Millicent had yet seen at Culvert House. Since her arrival, however, he had put in an appearance at least every other day, ana it had needed no great intuition on her part to guess that he wished to pay her his addresses. She had secretly resented this, for the mans intentions seemed ' to have been obvious from the first—it ' was as if he had made up bis mind to marry Silas Thurlow's adopted daughter, quite independently of any attraction ' that she might have lor him. And hi* pretensions were evidently seconded by J her relations. Silas Thurlow and his wife always appeared to be doing their best to ■ throtv the two young people together. '. Millieent resented this too. and whenever ■ she could contrive to do so, she would < nake her escape as soon as Harold ; ikyne appeared upon the scene. It was not that she had any active dis- > t l«e to the man. Had she not been so ' painfully aware of his intentions to- - wards her, she might have been ready : enough to tolerate him as a companion, . men companionship of any sort was at Meh a premium. He was'not bud-look- 1 ">g: big. broad-shouldered, and square of ' race; but there was a suggestion of . cruelty in his grey eyes which she did not ' «m, and his lips were over full, and apt i «> curve into a sinister smile. He wu.- i Slow of speech, and the high colour ot OB cheeks, together with a suggestion of fork rings under his eves, gave the mi- j Pression of irregularity of life. Yet, as 1 ™ as Millicent knew. Harold Mavne , quietly enough—a bachelor cxi- 1 "nc-e m an old-fashioned cottugp that ■ tV+d t0 the main road between Cul- < jn House and the neighbouring fishing - %ge of Findon. " , Millicent had hoped to avoid him thai 1 Doming when she had scaped to the < s «re, f or slle had - m mind th . (t he hftd __ «!«4 her, a couple of days earlier, to , him in a bicycle ride to inspect some j W .pi local interest. She was fond of , «*bicycle, for it afforded another means \ ' «capi ng now and then from the dull . &"•" ° f hor homfr-thouph, apart \ Wn !u l^sbe ueriv fd- little real pleasure , £°a the exercise. She Lad fancied that ™u, att fiDdin ? her at Culvert House, t via nave glven up lhe pllrsuit for th<l . <d m. 8 *- But he had divined that ( W?" Id °c on the sands, and had fol- ! HTk f tbither ' He had se( ni '»- ' Sfi J er,w,, -.'«-«in s back against the ' ttpto '• ■ MDvers atKm would lead ! able W"°; S T V ,he P ro P°*al was inevit- , £ fe had plucked up her courage to to hat- aU " lt was best - ' WIA ° Yer ' lnd then her relationship ] a4Jr• ■ Vo,,n " man mi - !lt I* more ( »t£ tbe £uUlrc tnan ;t h * d been \ reni ! dld " ot e^nw , much emotion at her ] w" , ; ,^- 1 T. as rather that of 5 ffii»ht h no: the =orrow which joe * 'oe expected from a rejected lover. I ' cernei ™ w cre ?sed into a frown, and the', C ; ° ! UIS .^P 5 twitched in a way ! ' WntV ,eCUl,ar t0 hi,n - and "hieh J' «nt thought particularly ugly. \f-1 ' m Qnentj howeveri £ c £ r -jVj t0 J tii^ c .. ha P 5 - Tou are right. Millicent."" h? other Tn We a ° n ' t real, - v knfJ%v each * »c thatt !aou " h - yot - B "t it seems to j ' «aou»h t montn s' time is quite lons ) Uiaw ra man t0 k nc>w whether hep We 01 for a girl, too, for! i

She had occupied the time immediately after her return to the house penning, j: with feverish haste, a letter to her French friend. Madame Verdun was already pretty well acquainted with her circumstances, aware of the lack of sympathy between herself and those in whose charge she was. Madame Verdun herself had begged the girl, in taking loave of her—begged her with much gesticulation and emphasis—to return one day to Tours, if ever the opportunity presented itself. '"For you have a career Ijeforc you, Mignonne," she had cried, "if you ever care to take it up. Believe mc that I speak the truth. And if I or my friends can help you to it —ah! but I ask nothing better. AI. Duforet never yet failed to recommend one. of his pupils." It all seemed quite simple, and Millicent found a great relief in inditing her letter. The only difficulty was that her correspondence always passed through the hands of Silas Thurlow. Uis knowledge of French was limited, but suliicing. It would not do, therefore, for him to cast his eyes over any answer that Millicent might receive to her letter. The only way, therefore, was for Madame Verdun to send her reply to the postoffice at Allington, which was the neajest town to Culvert House, though it was some five miles on the other side of the river, at the mouth of which the village of Findon was situated. The post otliee at Findon was no use to her "at all. si> she argued with herself, for any letters received there in her name would most certainly be delivered at once to Culvert House. She decided, for greater security, that she even post her letter at Allington, taking the opportunity, at the same time, at the post ollice that a letter would be received for her there, and that she would call for it in due course. She would take her bicycle, and the ride to Allington would be a distraction to her for the afternoon. This decided, she had bestowed her precious letter away in the bosom of her dress, and had made her appearance at lunch, where she was constrained to listen to the querulous complaints of Jirs. Thurlow on the subject of household grievances. Mrs. Thurlow wa,s always at war with her servants, which, perhaps, was well, for it provided her with the one topic of conversation that she was able to enjoy. "By the way, Millicent." remarked the sour-faced lady, when the rural was over, "your lather wishes to speak to you this afternoon, and you must not think of going out till you have seen him. He told mc so just now, as 1 came down to lunch." Millicent dropped her eyes, but ventured no protest. She knew that it would be futile, and to exasperate Mr. Thurlow unnecessarily at such a vital epoch in her career would have been bad policy. "Very well,"' she said, simply; "but 1 hope father won't keep mc indoors all tin , ,afternoon. I was thinking of going for a ride on my bicycle* Mrs. Thurlow glanced out of the window, which opened on to the ilat ajid uninviting garden, and from which a v.ew of the low shore could be obtained. "1 wouldn't do that if I were you," she remarked, "for. unless I am very much mistaken, there is a storm coming up, and we shall get it before night. At this time of the year the storms an: heavy and sudden."and it doesn't do to lie caught in them. By (he way,"' she added—it was rather a habit of hers to open her sentences thus—"Harold Maync was with your father ju-t. now, and' they wen- closeted together for quite half-an-hour. Most unusual for Silas to see anyone while lie i- at his work, and it must have 1 n something important to make him do >v." Tin; iittle old lady glanced nervously at the | girl. "Silas is in a bail temper, loo," i she continued, apprehensively. "1 could tell it from his face Is there anything wrong, Millicent ?" "How should 1 knou?" u-kej the girl. She. gave a little shrug of her shoulders, a gesture acquired from her Krcneh upbringing. Of course, she understood what hud happened. Harold Mayne had gone straight to her father with tlie story of her refusal of him, and now she would have t> fate an outbreak. of rase upon the part of .Ylr Thurlow. llow mean of Harold Mayne. she reflected: but, after all. it was what she might have expected of liiin—it was the first blow towards her subjection. It was annoying, exasperating. for, above all tilings, -4ie hated a scene. Hut yet it mattered very little really, einec her mini! was already made up. The moryr .Mr Thurlow miglil litiiiy her, the moiv determined she would become to carry her project into execution. She took a bf.uk. nllil settled herself. as comfortably as she ciuihl, in the morning room, which, like tin , nnmi she h-.id just left, looked soilwaid. There was li(----tle pretence of luxury here, any more than in the other apartnwntii of the house The furniture wan -lid' anil ugly, bought at some sale in Liverpool, when Silas had Hr*t installed his wife at. Culvert House, without any reference; or forethought as to Lite particular style required. There was a cottage piano—a wretched instrument compared to that to whirli Millicent h-.ul been nceu.-tonied — and this was her only scjl-.ue. Vet sh.> was to 0 often forbidden lv play mi it, because of Mr Thurlow's workshop, which happened to lie ,-lu.-e by. Time passed on. and Millicent was uninterrupted in her rellections. She was a lit 110 excited. coiiM-ioiis of the immensity of the move tll.il she proponed to malic; but her lips were set firmly, and she was quiti' resolved not to elmnge her mind. The great world was before her, anil .she had a childlike trust in her capability to faec it. After a while restlessness mastered her. She threw down the book, upon which she had been quite unable to lix her attention, and rising, suddenly crossed over to the piano. The thought had suddenly occurred to her that the sound of it might bring Mr Silas Thurlow from his den, and so hasten on the interview that she was bound to face. He would probably be a little more angry at being disturbed, but since lie was no doubt angry already this would affect her little. It was with a suggestion of a malicious smile thai she lifted the lid of the piano, and. stating herself, allowed her lingers to roam over the keys. The effect was almost instantaneous. Silas Thurlow bounded into the room, slamming the door behind him. He was evidently in a furious passion. "Stop' that!"' he shouted. And Millicent obediently took her bands from the piano and turned upon the stool to face the angry man. "Haven't I forbidden 'you to play the phino while I'm at work?" he said, his thin cheeks flushed, and his nostrils quivj ering. "You know that perfectly well, Millicent. sfad your only object can be to annoy mo." , "Indeed it is not," returned the girl. ''And I have asked you to let mc have the piano in some other room. You know that 1 have no other real pleasure but my music." "Well, understand that you are not to play in the future. No, not a note." He was trembling with passion, and he walked up and down the room, dragging his

CHAPTER 11. It -was not till the afternoon was well advanced that Millieent saw anything of her adopted father. He had been en- ' gaged all day. as wa-s iWual with him, upon his special hobby—tlie wonderful invention that was to revolutionise the craft of shipbuilding. In his younger days Silas Thurlow had been employed in the capacity of clerk in the great shipbuilding house of Bellmont and Mayne. a firm which had long held one of the most important positions in the country, but which only a few years ago, owing to certain circumstances not unmingled with tragedy, had met with financial disaster. Mr" Hellmont. the acting partner, had been murdered, and after his' death the affairs of the company had been found in so disorganised a state that collapse was inevitable. Jt was not fill then that Silas Thurlow had definitely retired, his savings of many years providing him with ample if not excessive means. He had taken Culvert House, within comparatively easy reach of Liverpool, as it was. some years before, and his wife had made it her home, while. Mr Thurlow himself spent the best part of -bis time in the city, visiting her only as occasion made it possible. Since the dissolution of the firm, however, he had hardly stirred from the lonely house, for his great invention —a chemical concoction in the way of non-fouling paint, an appliance that would render the hulls of ships impervious to the destructive crustacean—occupied all his time. According to him — and for the last year or two he had repeated the same thing—the scheme was already nearly perfected. He had said this so often that no one who came into contact with him really believed it. He was a small man, whose clothes always appeared to hang loosely about him. and he walked with an habitual stoop. He had thin grey hair, that had once been yellowish in hue. and he wore a rough and unkempt beard, yellow-grey, like his hair. He was a man of fiery temper, apt to fly into uncontrollable rages when annoyed. Tt was iittle wonder that Millieent was not in sympathy with him; indeed, the girl coubl never understand how it had come about that Silas Thurlow had been charitable enough in the past to adopt her, when, according to the story which had always been reported to her, elie had been left a penniless orphan by the death of her parents, who were, in nonie vague way. never clearly explained to her, connected with the Thurlows. It was evident enough that neither Silas nor his wife had done this for the love of children, for they had got rid of her as soon as they could conveniently do so by dispatching her. a mite of a child as she then was. to the good people in France, who had taken charge of her. and made he' life as happy as it could be made. MJllieent bad always fancied that there must be some mystery connected with her parentage. Since her return to England on the present occasion she had made one or two desperate efforts to unravel this, but her questions had never met with satisfactory replies. There was no mystery about it. no mystery at all—so silas Thurlow had told her, angrily, for he had never evinced any real affection for the girl. She bad been told all that it was necessary for her to know —all. indeed, that there was to be known. She was absolutely dependent upon her adopted parents, and there was no one else in all the world to whom she could turn. She had been educated, and well educated, at their expense, and anything in the way of grumbling was evidence of an ungrateful mind. Mrs. Thurlow, a small, sharp-featured woman, colourless, and inferior in social station even to her husband, always reechoed what he said. There was nothing, therefore, to be gained from her. Millieent was, perforce, obliged to accept, her position. But how dreary, how inexpressibly dreary, the future appeared! Since she had come to Lancashire, with the exception of Harold Mayne, who. as the only son of Sir Reginald Maync, late junior partner in the firm of Dellmnnt and Mayne, had maintained his friendship with Silas Thurlow, Millicent had seen scarcely a soul, nor did there appear to be any prospects of her enlarging her acquaintance in the future. There was no escape for her, then, save in the alliance with Harold, which had evidently been projected for her. all arranged and settled, before she was summoned back to Kngland. She understood tliis now, and the very fact that her obedience to such an arrangement should have been taken for granted increased ■the rebellious spirit within her. Oh. if tfhc could only escape from it all! If she could put her dismal surroundings, her uncongenial relations, and the hateful Lancashire e-oast far behind her! Kadi day was a dull re-jKitition of the day that had preceded it; and even the bright autumn sunshine, the fresh and invigorating sea breezes, even her own youth and health, failed to oiler suflicing consolation. To escape from it all! It was not by amy means the first time that the desire had l>een upon her. But to-day, since Harold Mayne had shown nlrnself in his true colours, since she understood without a doubt 'that every effort would b< , made to compel her to a marriage, the very idea of which was hateful to her. to-day the thought had recurred with | peculiar intensity. True, she had nothing to speak of that she could call her o.vn. for her allowance had always been too small to permit of saving. Upon her return to the notice that morning, the desire for independence upon her, she had made her way at once to her own room, and opened the purse in which she was wont to keep her own little store. She ha.d realised with a sigh that some I.V w;vs all she stood in possession of, and this would have to last her till the following week, when her meagre dole would in due course be handed over to her. A meagre dole indeed, but —and her heart leaped within her at the reflection — it would be sufficient to pay her expenses to the little town close to Tours, where she had been brought up. and which ishe loved so well. Dear Madame Verdun would receive her with open arras —she was sure of that—and would help to hide her away if any attempt were made, by her relations to bring her ba<k. Why could she not earn her own living? .Surely her talent for music would stand her in good stead? All she needed was an opening, and friends to support her upon the first rungs of the ladder. She could find thtt-e in France, but not in Kngland. r .ne had sublime confidence in herself, i the confidence of her impetuous nature, and of her glorious health and strength. To all intents and purposes her mind was , made up, and she chafed only at the necessity of having t<l wait till the following week before the means of carry- i ing out her project were at her disposi- t tion. She had no qualms of conscience, no regrete. Love had never been accorded to her at this place, which was mis- i called her "home." What was there, then, to bind her to it?

feet, the stoop of his shoulders accentuj ated. au ungainly and unlovable object. '"You forbid mc to play the piano?" Millicent asked, slowly, keeping her own temper in perfect control. Here was a blow indeed, and if there was the smallest indecision in her mind as to her future actions this was enough to dispel it. "Yes/ , he snapped, turning sharply upon her, and bringing his little wizened face close to hers. "1 refuse to let you play; I refuse absolutely." He paused, and Tnast(«red him.sel? with an effort. '"That is," he continued, "unless you withdraw your refusal to marry Harold Mayne. I have seen him this morning, and he has told mc that he proposed, and you refused to have anything to do with him. Did you mean it seriously? Toll me"—he stretched out a lean hand and gripped her by the wrist —"did you moan your refusal to be dpfinito?" ''1 did.' , Millicent was afraid of the ugly, grimacing face brought into such close contact with her own, and .-he had to muster all hpr courage together to make answer. "1 don't love Mr Mayne, and 1 should not marry anyone without love." "It isn't a question of love," snarled thp man, "it's a question of expediency and of what I desire. You have known perfectly well all this time that 1 wished you to marry Harold. It was for that reason that f sent for you from France; it was for that reason that I have thrown you both together during the last six weeks. Xow, understand me"—he drew himself un, straightening, as well as he was able, his distorted shoulders—"l have told Harold Mayne to come again to-morrow, when you will give him a different answer from that, of to-day. He will expect you to agree to his proposal, and agree to it you shall." "I will not,," 'said thp girl, firmly. "11 told him tlii.s morning that 1 hato.d him. and if lie wishes to hoar mo repeat this he will come. If not, he had better stay away.' , "I toll you you shall obey mo, Millicent —you shall!" The colour had deserted the man's cheeks now; lie was livid with ra<re that lip could hardly bold in chock. '"I have told you what 1 wish. you to do, .mil you must do it. or tho consequences will be upnn your own head. Xow go to your room"—he pointed with trembling finger to the door— "and think it over. I have no time tn waste arguing with a foolish girl. But [I shall expect you to tell mc to-night that you are prepared to do your duty by those who have befriended you since you were a helpless child" Millicent rose, ;ind, without, a word in reply, stopped from tho room, but as soon as she had closed the donr behind her a restrained snh burst from her throat. "Oh! why en n't 1 do it now?" slip murmured. "Why can't 1 go away just as i mil. and for over?" She walked on mechanically, her fingers clasped tightly into tho palms of her hand-. "Ob. if 1 were not so helpless! If 1 had somewhere to go to!" she moaned, '-ir.iw shall ! face him to-night?" (To be continued next Saturday.)