When the blackbeetle, whose other name was Catherine Mary, appeared again it was to bring supper, and a message from a poor woman that “She was taken cruel bad, and would Miss Muriel come to her?” Muriel left her after a terrible four hours. The fight had given her strength, and the light in her eyes was wonderful. She had forgotten all about the Lady of Shalott. CHAPTER XXIV “La vie est vaine: Un peu d’amour, Un peu de haine, Et puis—bonjour!” “REALLY, Mary, it’s absurd to stay away from the picnic! And I simply can’t go if you won’t. That odious Mrs. Collins makes the most hateful chaperon, with her ‘Come here, my dear!’ just at the wrong moments. _Won’t_ you come, Mary?” Gladys, in the most delicate of Dresden flowered silks, with a huge hat one mass of pale pink roses and black velvet, looked imploringly at her companion. She was a girl it was impossible to describe without mentioning her clothes. One felt if she had worn a yachting suit with gilt buttons she would have looked pathetic. Mary Huntly took one of the little hands in hers. “The truth is, dear—but don’t, please, tell Tom—I had a slight hæmorrhage this morning. Nothing much, it is true, but these tiresome lungs will bother me, and I know I ought to keep quiet to-day.” “You never used to be so fussy about your health, Mary,” exclaimed the girl petulantly. There is nothing that so torments a brave woman as a gibe at nervousness. It was true that Mary had conquered her fear, but she knew it to be something that comes again, and would never while she lived cease to give up coming. She winced and let the girl’s hand drop; she had not voice enough to explain. The persistent cruel healthiness of the girl before her aroused in her a kind of defiance. “Since you are so keen, dear, I will go,” she said, “but I hope they won’t expect me to talk!” She laughed huskily. “Tom is out shooting, isn’t he?” she asked Gladys later as they walked towards the carriage which was to take them to their destination. “How funny you are, Mary! You never used to be so interested in Tom’s movements,” laughed Gladys; “he won’t be back, I don’t suppose, till long after we are.” An hour later, by a half-ruined temple, under the shade of great enshrouding trees, Jack Hurstly sitting beside Gladys asked her a little sharply if her cousin wasn’t very seedy. “Yes, poor dear!” said Gladys with the wistful, pathetic look that had helped to draw Mary to the picnic; “and she’s so dreadfully plucky and determined, I couldn’t persuade her to stay at home with me. I can’t tell you how anxious it makes me feel!”