“And quite enough, too,” said Beatrice with a shudder. “What times we live in! I feel quite sick.” Supper that night was a very melancholy affair. Old Mr. Granger was altogether thrown off his balance; and even Elizabeth’s iron nerves were shaken. “It could not be worse, it could not be worse,” moaned the old man, rising from the table and walking up and down the room. “Nonsense, father,” said Elizabeth the practical. “He might have been shot before he had sold the hay, and then you would not have got your tithe.” Geoffrey could not help smiling at this way of looking at things, from which, however, Mr. Granger seemed to draw a little comfort. From constantly thinking about it, and the daily pressure of necessity, money had come to be more to the old man than anything else in the world. Hardly was the meal done when three reporters arrived and took down Geoffrey’s statement of what had occurred, for publication in various papers, while Beatrice went away to see about packing Effie’s things. They were to start by a train leaving for London at half-past eight on the following morning. When Beatrice came back it was half-past ten, and in his irritation of mind Mr. Granger insisted upon everybody going to bed. Elizabeth shook hands with Geoffrey, congratulating him on his escape as she did so, and went at once; but Beatrice lingered a little. At last she came forward and held out her hand. “Good-night, Mr. Bingham,” she said. “Good-night. I hope that this is not good-bye also,” he added with some anxiety. “Of course not,” broke in Mr. Granger. “Beatrice will go and see you off. I can’t; I have to go and meet the coroner about the inquest, and Elizabeth is always busy in the house. Luckily they won’t want you; there were so many witnesses.” “Then it is only good-night,” said Beatrice. She went to her room. Elizabeth, who shared it, was already asleep, or pretending to be asleep. Then Beatrice undressed and got into bed, but rest she could not. It was “only good-night,” a last good-night. He was going away—back to his wife, back to the great rushing world, and to the life in which she had no share. Very soon he would forget her. Other interests would arise, other women would become his friends, and he would forget the Welsh girl who had attracted him for a while, or remember her only as the companion of a rough adventure. What did it mean? Why was her heart so sore? Why had she felt as though she should die when they told her that he was dead? Then the answer rose in her breast. She loved him; it was useless to deny the truth—she loved him body, and heart and soul, with all her mind and all her strength. She was his, and his alone—to-day, to-morrow, and for ever. He might go from her sight, she might never, never see him more, but love him she always must. And he was married!