On the following morning Robert Asquith returned to London, to make ready for his grouse-shooting expedition on Wednesday. Rhoda Meres remained at Knightswell one more day. On Tuesday she was not at all well. Between Ada and her very fair relations existed; the girls were not intimate, but they generally discovered a common ground for companionship, which was more than could be said of Ada’s attitude towards any other female acquaintance. When Rhoda kept her room in the morning it was natural that Ada should go to her, and seek to be of comfort. She could be of none, it proved; after a few efforts, Rhoda plainly begged to be left alone with her headache. At midday Mrs. Clarendon herself entered the room, bringing in her hand a little tray. Rhoda was by this time sitting in a deep chair, and professed herself better. She had not slept during the night, she said, and was feeling the effects; doubtless the unwonted excitement of the party had been too much for her. Isabel talked to her quietly, and saw that she ate something, then sat by her, holding the girl’s hands. “I have a letter from your father this morning,” she said. “He seems to miss you sadly. But for that, I should keep you longer.” “I’m afraid he must get used to it,” was Rhoda’s reply, cheerlessly uttered. “Why, dear?” “I shall not stay at home.” “What shall you do?” Isabel asked quietly. “Go somewhere--go anywhere--go and find work and earn a living!” “But I think you have work enough at home.” “I am not indispensable.” “I believe you are. I don’t think your father can do without you.” “Why can’t he? Hilda is at home quite enough to look after the servant. What else does he want with me?” “Much else, dear Rhoda. Your sympathy, your aid in his work, your child’s love. Remember that your father’s life is not a very happy one. You are old enough to understand that. You know, I think, that it never has been very happy. Can’t you find work enough in cheering him?” For reply the girl burst into tears. “Cheer him!” she sobbed. “How can I cheer any one? How can I give comfort to others when my own life is bare of it? It’s easy for you to show me my duty, Mrs. Clarendon. Tell me _how_ I am to do it!” Isabel put her arm about the shaken form, and there was soothing in the warm current of her blood. “I cannot tell you how to do it, Rhoda,” she said, when the sobs had half stilled themselves. “My own is too much for me. But I can--with such force of love as is in me--implore you to guard against mistakes, beseech you not to heap up trouble for yourself through want of experience, want of knowledge of the world, through refusal to let older ones see and judge for you. My own life has been full of lessons, though I dare say I have not suffered as much as others would have done in my place, for I have a temperament which easily--only too easily--throws aside care. If only I could live it over again with all my experience to guide me!”