The moral was always that they were not to be trusted, and Miranda, vividly recollecting Ralph Warriner and Wilbraham, listened and wondered, listened and wondered, until she would rise of a sudden and take refuge in her own parlour, of which the window looked out across the valley to the hills, where she would sit with a throbbing forehead pressed upon her palms, certain, certain, that the homily was not true, and yet half distracted lest it should be true. On the morrow of one such conversation, and one such flight, Miss Holt came into the little parlour--a cool, dark-panelled, low-roofed room of which the door gave on to the patio--and found Miranda searching the room. "Do you know what month this is?" Miss Holt asked severely. "October." "Quite so," and great emphasis was laid upon the words. "I know," replied Miranda, penitently, as she crossed over to a table and lifted the books. "We have been here all the summer; it has been very hot. I am sorry, but I was compelled to stay. I did not know what might occur, and," she anxiously turned over the letters and papers on her writing-table in the window, "it was some comfort, I admit, to feel that one was near--" She stopped suddenly and resumed in confusion, "I mean I did not know what might happen." Jane Holt looked at her with great displeasure, but said nothing until Miranda began hurriedly to open and shut the drawers of her writing-table. Then she said irritably: "What in the world are you looking for?" Miranda stood up and looked round the room. "There was a glove," she said absently. "Yes, I threw it away." "Threw it away!" Miranda stared at Jane Holt with a look of complete dismay. "You don't mean that. Oh, you can't mean it!" "Indeed I do; it was torn across the palm." "I left it lying there, on my writing-desk, yesterday, after you and I had been talking--" She left the sentence unfinished. "Yes, and I found it there. It was torn, so I had it thrown away." Miranda rang a hand-bell, and ordered search to be made for the glove. It could not be found; it had been burnt with the answered letters. "Very well," said Miranda, and the servant retired. Miranda sat down, and showed to Jane Holt a face of which the expression was almost scared. "What does it matter?" exclaimed Jane. "The glove was torn; you could never have used it." "No," answered Miranda, quickly, almost guiltily it seemed. "I should never have used it; I never meant to use it. The glove was only a symbol; it was no more than that, it represented a belief. I can retain the belief, no doubt. No doubt, though, I have lost the glove--" "What in the world are you talking about?" interrupted Jane Holt.