‘It was in March,’ replied Ada, with stony composure. ‘When I was staying in Wensleydale, and he was in Friarsdale, and he met me every day, and said he’d never cared for anybody else. I’ve written to him—a hundred letters. He has never answered one. I thought he was at home now; I heard so. I came to tell him he must—to shame him, if I couldn’t persuade him; and now ... he’s not here. No one knows ... where he is.’ With an hysterical sob she sank together in the corner of a couch. ‘In March,’ Eleanor was repeating to herself, with mechanical calm, and clenching her hands, to keep herself still. ‘March—and this is October. There is yet time.’ That was all she could think of at the moment. There was no time, no possibility for anything else. Her brain felt wound up to this emergency, and to nothing more. She walked up to Ada, and touched her. ‘Your parents—what do they know?’ ‘Nothing,’ said Ada, in a dull, colourless monotone. ‘Mother is away, or I dare not have come home. Father is away for the night. He’ll be back to-morrow: he will find out ... he will turn me out of doors. Oh, Miss Askam, save me, save me, save me!’ ‘Hush!’ said Eleanor, quietly. ‘Let me think. Some one must have known—the people you were staying with—your aunt?’ ‘She would keep me no longer. I put her off by telling her that he was coming down there to marry me—that he’d sent me there to wait for him. I said it all depended on her keeping silence; that was why she let me stay so long.’ ‘At what time will your father be back?’ ‘At eleven to-morrow morning, they said.’ ‘You will go home now, and stay there all night. At nine o’clock to-morrow morning come to me. I shall have had time to make arrangements then. I will see your father. I do not think he will turn you out of doors. If he does, you shall come here. I will send for—my brother. I think I can make him come. I do not wish to seem harsh to you, but you must go home now, that I may have time to arrange things. You will go to your room at once, when you get home. You understand—you can say you are tired. Try not to be frightened,’ she added, bending over Ada, who was crouched in an attitude of blank despair; ‘because I can shelter you, and I will do so, as God is above us. I promise you this. Now go.’ Slowly Ada rose. Eleanor felt afraid lest she should break down before she had left the house. But she did not. She submitted to have her shawl pinned on again, and with the same look of utter, vacant despair, walked away.