Things might have been worse, of course; but on the whole she would even have preferred an open rupture and well-founded resentment, to this persistent determination to know how things were with her,--and others? Val had no liking for Paul Foster now, though at first he had professed such. He had no reason to give, and an obstinate look would come over his face if pressed. Once he had murmured something of which Leo only caught the words, "jolly deceitful,"--and the next minute he denied having spoken them. To herself Leo owned that she had not behaved well to poor Val, having made use of him for selfish ends; but the experiment had harmed neither, and no remorse need be wasted upon it. With George Butts it was the same; he was fair game, having come in search of her supposititious fortune, without even the excuse of an honest, jog-trot fidelity such as Val's. She had been scolded on George's account, but had not scolded herself, and had archly and triumphantly pointed out the recusant to Sue in a sly corner of a London balcony. But young Andrews? Ah, _that_ stung. The home truths forced from those quivering lips, the agony of those imploring eyes--she quailed before them. They pierced her already shame-embittered soul, they were her dying wounds. For she had made another suffer what she herself was suffering, and had done it wantonly. There was no excuse for her,--none. There should be no pity, no sorrow--if it were possible, no knowledge when--when all was over. She crashed into the undergrowth. But she could not go far; the mould was too soft, and the rotting leaves too thick and plentiful. She was forced to retrace her steps. There was the dry track of a streamlet, along which a faint trickle oozed to the surface here and there. She tried it, but the sharp stones hurt her feet, and again she sprang into the path. Then the sprawling arms of a bramble caught and ripped a bad tear in her skirt. Her new, black skirt--and just where a darn would show! How tiresome--how vexatious! And Bessie could not darn decently. She frowned and examined, condemning already Bessie's incapable hand, and slipshod work. Till--remembrance came, and the torn edge flapped unheeded. From below, where a frequented road came near at the point, there broke upon her ear sounds and voices,--children returning late from school, lingering and playing by the way--laughing and singing over their game. She crouched till they were past--then hurried forward. At length she came to an opening in the woods; a spot whose view of the surrounding country often attracted her thither--and from habit she paused and gazed. It was such an afternoon as she loved; a red sky, a misty landscape, the near trees still ablaze with autumn tints. In the distance a flying train threaded its way whistling; the white steam appearing and disappearing behind wooded heights and promontories. How often had she stood thus; how familiar was the scene!--but she could not linger now.