She closed her eyes for a moment, and murmured words that he did not hear. “Is Mrs. Stratton still with you?” he asked. “At church; it must be nearly time for her to return.” “And Miss Warren?” “She is reading, I suppose; she always prefers to be alone.” “Dear, you are suffering.” “No, indeed no. Is my face worn? Do I look--old?” “What was that word? You are as beautiful as day.” “You will come very soon again? I will write and tell you when.” “I dare not let you speak more.” “I am still weak,” she said with a smile. Her voice was failing. He knelt by her side, and she, bending forward with modest grace, gave him the sweetness of her lips. ***** The storm still raged; nothing was to be seen beyond a few yards through the white whirl. As Kingcote struggled against it with bent head, a carriage passed him, moving, silently over the snow; it was bringing Mrs.. Stratton from church. This made him fear lest he should meet the Vissians near the rectory; he could speak with no one now; there was a voice in his ears which for his life he would not have silenced. He turned off into the trackless park, and walked in a direction which would bring him out at a lonely part of the new road. With a boy’s delight he leapt through the deep snow, and fought his way against the whirlwind. He lost his bearing; the white outlines of the country were irrecognisable; there was nothing for it but to push on, and come out where, he might. It was two hours at least before he at length got into a track that he knew, and which led him homewards. He reached the cottage in complete exhaustion, chilled, feeble with hunger. Unable even to cast off his wet clothing before he had rested, he threw himself into a chair. He laughed; it would be something to tell her when they met again. END OF VOL. I. End of Project Gutenberg's Isabel Clarendon, Vol. I (of II), by George Gissing