"Here is the story. I don't know how I've done it, but here it is. Do read it--because I really am a little mad, and if it's any good, send it in at once to the _Monthly Multitude_. I slept all last night. I shall soon be well now. Everything is so delightful, and the air is splendid. A thousand thanks for sending me here. I am enjoying the rest and change immensely.--Your grateful "JANE." She read it through. Her smile at the last phrase was not pretty to see. When the long envelope was posted, Jane went down to the quiet shore and gazed out over the sunlit sands to the opal line of the far receding tide. The story was written. There was an end to the conflict of agonies, so now the fiercer agony had the field to itself. "I suppose I shall learn to bear it presently," she told herself. "I wish I had not forgotten how to cry. I am sure I ought to cry. But the story is done, anyway. I daresay I shall remember how to cry before the next story has to be done." There were two more nights and one whole day. The nights had islands of sleep in them--hot, misty islands in a river of slow, crawling, sluggish hours. The day was light and breezy and sunny, with a blue sky cloud-flecked. The day was worse than the nights, because in the day she remembered all the time who she was, and where. It was on the last day of the week. She was sitting rigid in the little porch, her eyes tracing again and again with conscious intentness the twisted pattern of the budding honeysuckle stalks. A rattle of wheels suddenly checked came to her, and she untwisted her stiff fingers and went down the path to meet Milly--a pale Milly, with red spots in her cheeks and fierce, frowning brows--a Milly who drew back from the offered kiss and spoke in tones that neither had heard before. "Come inside. I want to speak to you." The new disaster thus plainly heralded moved Jane not at all. There was no room in her soul for any more pain. In the little dining-room, conscientiously "quaint" with its spotted crockery dogs and corner cupboard shining with willow pattern tea-cups, Milly shut the door and turned on her friend. "Now," she said, "I came down to see you, because there are some things I couldn't write--even to you. You can go back to the station in the cab, I've told the man to wait. And I hope I shall never see your face again." "What do you mean?" Jane asked the question mechanically, and not at all because she did not know the answer. "You know what I mean," the other answered, still with white fury. "I've found you out. You thought you were safe, and Edgar was dead, and no one would know. But as it happens _I_ knew; and so shall everybody else." Jane moistened dry lips, and said: "Knew what?" and held on by the table. "You didn't think he'd told _me_ about it, did you?" Milly flashed--"but he did."