Meadowes was mystified by her words. He had never seen Anne fanciful before. ‘Well, what of it?—’tis not unlike heavy firing, as you say,’ he admitted. ‘But you are safe enough here, my girl, in all truth.’ ‘Eh, Dick! don’t _you_ understand?’ cried Anne. ‘Battles, and guns, and all. . . . I do seem to hear from over seas, from Flanders, bringing to my mind all I’ve a mind to forget. I’ve sat all this day a-hearing of them guns, and times I’d stop my ears.—O Lord! there be the screams again.’ And Anne, turning to the only helper she had, held out her hands to him with a trembling, childish gesture. ‘Dick, Dick,’ she said, ‘you be quick to feel all things, and kind too, more nor I deserve, I that have married you, and my heart turning back to another.’ Quick to feel, Meadowes was feeling a hundred conflicting sensations at that moment. But first of all he must quiet Anne. ‘Come, Anne,’ he said, ‘you are tired and fanciful. ’Tis time you were gone to bed, and by the morning you will have forgot the storm that scares you now. Ah, I understand altogether, Anne; aye, and feel for you too. But these things are better left alone, it but makes them harder to speak of them.’ ‘Maybe, maybe,’ said Anne, rising to put a fresh candle in the candlestick. She had appealed to ‘Dick’ in vain, she thought, and would not attempt to make him understand. ‘I have some letters to write,’ said Meadowes, dismissing the subject; ‘I shall sit up and finish them.’ When Anne had gone, however, there, was not much letter-writing done. Meadowes sat and looked into the fire, coming to several conclusions. Well, here was the end of his amour; up to this time he had been quite content with Anne, delighted with her; but now—he simply could not stand this. If she was going to be always thinking about Sebastian Shepley, and even mentioning him, it was high time that the connection between himself and her was at an end. Meadowes, who was a very fastidious man, shuddered at the whole situation. ‘Horrible; truly ’twas in Providence I did not marry her,’ he said. Yet he had quite enough of conscience to make it a difficult matter for him to break with Anne. He dreaded beyond measure her anger when she found herself to have been so duped. It was indeed almost impossible to contemplate telling her. How would it best be done? Offer her money? Anne would never consider that a recompense. Just leave her? ‘Even I am not bad enough for that!’ Trust to time? Time would possibly make matters worse. Yet after hours of thought on the subject this last and very lame conclusion was the one which Meadowes finally adopted. He resolved not to see so much of her now and—to wait.