definite dismissal, Philip’s remonstrance leading to argument, angry words—and a blow? She would have risen from the bed in agitation, but for Celia’s hand within hers. The vision she had conjured up seemed for a terrible moment suddenly real: then as suddenly it seemed absurd. She felt that Philip might have struck a blow in a gust of anger, but could never conceal that he had done so. He would, she was convinced, have been overcome with remorse, and would have confessed the whole story then and there to her. Her momentary doubt shrivelled as an unclean thing flung into a fire; she hated herself that she had ever entertained it for a single instant. Philip was hasty, and high-strung; at the moment he was also worn out; but whatever he had done, it went outside her knowledge of him, her long trust and belief in him, that he could be acting a part to save his own skin. In this thought she understood his manner; to a man of his temperament to come across such a sight unexpectedly—he had almost stumbled across the body, he had said—would be sufficiently unnerving. In unconscious reparation for what she now termed disloyalty her confidence grew all the stronger in so old and true a friend. She stirred, without knowing it, as she dispelled her disquieting and ungenerous suggestion, and Celia at once awoke. She still looked white and worn out and turned to Evelyn with a heavy sigh and then lay still again. “How good of you to sit with me, Evie,” she said at last, looking across the room in a tired way. “My dear, what nonsense between us!” exclaimed Evelyn warmly. “Of course I’m glad to do all I can. But you mustn’t take it so much to heart. It is a dreadful thing, I know; horrible to think of, but after all——” She paused and then added gently, “I know just what you are thinking.” Celia’s eyes turned upon her suddenly. She did not speak, but her hand tightened on Evelyn’s. “You mustn’t blame yourself. You’re thinking, I know,” went on Evelyn, answering her gaze, “that you found him cold, even cruel, in his lifetime, and now that he has gone you wish you had loved him more.” Celia’s eyes dropped: she looked away and said at last in a low, irresolute tone, “No, it isn’t that. It’s just the awful suddenness. I didn’t love him; I wouldn’t tell any one else, especially now, but you know I didn’t. But it is dreadful to think that——” She broke off abruptly. “Well, you must try not to think about it any more than you can help. That’s so easy to say I know, but try.” “I can’t help it,” said Celia, bursting suddenly into tears. She controlled herself in a minute with an effort, dried her eyes, and then said, “You’re quite right; I’m very silly. I will try. I think I’ll get up and go and see mother now. I haven’t been to see her at all, have I? Oh, if it had been any way but this—but I mustn’t say that.”