"No!" Jean was obstinate. "You look different. Dear old thing, it's a comfort to see you so sweet and blooming. I was afraid I should find you all gone to pieces. I _do_ admire you. When I think of your life, and mine! I should be such a beast. Miggles says you are an angel. So does Piers. Not in so many words, of course. Piers never says what he feels. He is such a silent, shut-up creature, but I could see that he was simply bursting with admiration of your life down here. Doesn't he look well? I have never seen him so bright. Robert says he goes a great deal to the Van Dusens'. They have such a pretty daughter. I've wondered so often if he could be in love at last. That would account for it all. I hope he is--Old Piers! I should like him to be happy." "Very probably it is. He is certainly changed," said Vanna briefly. The next day the Gloucesters took their departure, and left behind a sense of loss and blank. Miggles struggled under a weight of depression at the thought that this might be the last time that she would ever behold her beloved child and pupil; the maid covered up the furniture of the guest-room with dull regret; Vanna was racked by an access of bitterness and jealousy. All the dearly won composure of the past eight months seemed swept aside. She was back again in the slough of despond which had followed the memorable visit to the doctor. Every sight, every sound, every word that was uttered seemed to press against her nerves with unbearable jar; she felt a sense of enmity against Miggles, the village, the whole human race; above all, against Jean and her husband. She shut herself within the walls of a cold and sullen reserve, never speaking unless spoken to, answering with the curtest of monosyllables. For three long days she hardened herself against the pleading of Miggles's eyes and the tenderness in the feeble voice, but on the afternoon of the third day she brought her footstool to the side of the sofa, and laid her head against the old woman's knee. "Comfort me, Miggles! My heart is so sore. I'm sad, and I'm bad, and I've made you miserable, and now I come to you for help. I'm so _tired_. Say something to help me along!" "What is it, dearie? Grieving after Jean, and feeling lonely to be left without your friend? It was such a short visit. So good of them to spare the time, but from our point of view it was _rather_ aggravating. You want her back again, as I do, and grieve that she's so far away." "No, I don't! I don't want to see her. I'm glad she's in town. I hope she won't come again. The contrast is too great. I can't stand it. She has everything, and I have nothing. It's not fair. She doesn't deserve it any more than I do. Why should she be beautiful, and strong, and happy, and adored, while I am lonely, and sad, and tainted by disease? I can't bear it. I wish she had never come." Miggles's face showed a network of lines of distress and bewilderment.