In the meantime, Miss Crane, not ill-pleased to be out of the society of her enemies, paced meditatively on the terrace. The night was warm, cloudless, and silent--save for the wild singing of the nightingales in the woods. The gush of melody so piercingly sorrowful threw Miriam into a melancholy mood. In truth she had much to mourn for--much to regret, and the future was so full of doubt, its path so crowded with pitfalls and snares, that she could foresee nothing to cheer her there. Walking up and down, a black solitary figure in the white light of the moon, she was in herself the true embodiment of her sad and lonely life. From her earliest childhood she had known sorrow, and, on her of late had fallen too, the shadow of disgrace, yet she was as pure as the unsullied moonlight. For this beautiful, sad woman was a bearer in more than an ordinary degree of other people's burdens. She had many foes, but no friend--unless Barton could be called one--and he, as she knew only too well had befriended her only to use her as a tool. From her present environment there seemed to be no escape, unless she faced her benefactor boldly, and refused to obey turn. But for more reasons than one, she was unwilling to take the extreme course. Her walk to the end of the terrace brought her abreast of the lighted windows of the library. Just as she was near them--about ten minutes after she had left the drawing-room--one of them opened. She shrank back in the shadow, and saw Barton step forth with a tall lean man, the very man she had seen on the previous day. The pair talked in low whispers for a moment or so--then the man fluttered down the terrace steps like a huge bat, and disappeared in the shade of the trees overhanging the avenue. Barton looked after him, and shook his fist, an action at which Miriam wondered in so hard and seemingly impervious a man. His back was towards her, and not wishing to be found eavesdropping--although truly she had heard no word--she stepped out again into the moonlight. At the sound of her light tread Barton spun round like a beast at bay; but when he saw who it was he smiled and saluted her. He was too sure of his power over her to fear anything she might have overheard. But Miriam had heard nothing, and said as much in reply to his sharp question. "I was just taking a walk in the cool air," she explained. "The others are enjoying themselves very well without me. I am only the governess, you know--and a great thing in a governess is to know when her room is preferable to her company, isn't it?" "Oh, I know; but I wonder what they would say if they knew something else. A governess! Oh, Lord!" And Barton chuckled as he looked at the beautiful woman whose face was so pale in the moonlight. Perfectly calm, since she felt able now to resist Barton's mesmeric power, Miriam stepped into the library. "Come in here, Mr. Barton," said she imperiously, "I must speak to you."