Since the day when Philippa had unfolded her plans for the future, Isabella had relinquished all hope of seeing Francis again, and had quietly schooled herself to accept the fact that in his life there was no place for her. His health had been restored, as by a miracle, and he remembered her existence, but that was all. None but herself knew how greatly she had longed and hoped for the day when his clouded mind would once more awake to the recollection of her and of their friendship. How many times had she promised herself that when the moment came he would turn to his old comrade in his loneliness and grasp her strong hand for help and comfort! But the time had come and gone, and he had not wanted her; there was nothing she could do for him. She had faced the bitter truth with all the courage she could muster, and forced herself into calmness and acquiescence. For her the memory of the past remained. In her inmost heart she had long ago erected a shrine--a shrine where Memory was enthroned--a boyish, virile figure with all the hope and joy of his young manhood on his beautiful, eager face. She laid down her pen after a while, and with it all pretence of any other occupation than that of listening as "the muffled tramp of years came stealing up the slope of time." She sat quite motionless, with her head bent forward and her hands folded in her lap. It was an attitude characteristic of her, and she had at all times a curious power of stillness. So engrossed was she, so intent upon hearing Voices which spoke for her ear alone, that an unwonted stir at the cottage door failed to rouse her, and it was not until Mrs. Palling hurried in, with excitement and pleasure written large on her homely face, that Isabella became aware that she had been called already several times. "Miss! miss! there's the pony-shay from the High House a-comin' along the lane. 'Twill be the young lady for a cup o' tea, for sure. It don't surprise me, that it don't, for them bees have been buzzin' for a stranger these four days or more; but I come to tell you, thinking as though you might like to go and meet her. I made a bit o' plum bread this very morning that rose as light as goosedown, and that'll just come in handy for your tea----" Isabella had risen hastily to her feet, and was out at the little green gate before the woman had finished speaking. The old pony was answering gamely to the encouragement which Philippa was giving him with both whip and voice, and trotted across the green at a pace which must have reminded him of his distant youth, and as she pulled up he tossed his head and shook himself as though to disguise the fact that he was blowing hard as the result of his unwonted exertions. Philippa got quickly out of the carriage and came close to her friend. "Isabella," she said, "will you come? he wants you--now--at once."