Miss Fountain, after' a first impatient murmur, "I might have remembered!"--stood without a word, with eyes cast down, and a little scornful smile on her colourless lips. When at last she had shut the door on her assailant, a great quivering sigh rose from the girl's breast. Was it the last touch? But she said nothing. She brushed away a tear that had unconsciously risen, and went back to her packing. * * * * * "Just wait a moment!" said Miss Fountain to old Wilson, who was driving her across the bridge on her way to the station. "I want to get a bunch of those berries by the water. Take the pony up the hill. I'll join you at the top." Old Wilson drove on. Laura climbed a stile and slipped down to the waterside. The river, full with autumn rain, came foaming down. The leaf was falling fast. Through the woods on the further bank she could just distinguish a gable of the old house. A moan broke from her. She stooped and buried her face in the grass--his grass. When she returned to the road, she looked for the letter-box in the wall of the bridge, and, walking up to it, she dropped into it two letters. Then she stood a moment with bent brows. Had she made all arrangements for Augustina? But she dared not let herself think of the morrow. She set her face to the hill--trudging steadily up the wet, solitary road. Once--twice--she turned to look. Then the high trees that arched over the top of the hill received the little form; she disappeared into their shadow. BOOK V CHAPTER I "My dear, where are the girls?" The speaker was Dr. Friedland, the only intimate friend Stephen Fountain had ever made at Cambridge. The person addressed was Dr. Friedland's wife. On hearing her husband's question, that lady's gentle and benevolent countenance emerged from the folds of a newspaper. It was the "first mild day of March," and she and her husband had been enjoying an after-breakfast chat in the garden of a Cambridge villa. "Molly is arranging the flowers; Laura has had a long letter from Mrs. Fountain, and is now, I believe, gone to answer it." "Then I shan't enjoy my lunch," said Dr. Friedland pensively. He was an elderly gentleman, with a short beard and moustache turning to white, particularly black eyes, and a handsome brow. His wife had put a rug over his shoulders, and another over his knees, before she allowed him the "Times" and a cigarette. Amid the ample folds of these draperies, he had a Jove-like and benignant air. His wife inquired what difference Miss Fountain's correspondence would or could make to her host's luncheon. "Because she won't eat any," said the doctor, with a sigh, "and I find it infectious." Mrs. Friedland laid down her newspaper. "There is no doubt she is worried--about Mrs. Fountain." "_E tutti quanti_" said the doctor, humming a tune. "My dear, it is surprising what an admiration I find myself possessed of for Sir John Pringle."