Then, perceiving that her interest was really aroused, he told her something of what he was trying to do, and promised some time or other to tell her more. Eugenia felt happier than she had done for long, that evening. Her respect for Gerald Thurston was rapidly increasing. "I have never before done him justice," she said to herself; "I am most fortunate to have him for a friend." Gerald, on his way back to Wareborough, felt very glad that he had seen her again. "It was the best thing to do to get over the uncomfortable feeling," thought he. "She trusts me now thoroughly, and I may be of use to her." And Sydney, who had been a little puzzled by Gerald's visit to Nunswell, was greatly delighted by his cheerful looks and satisfactory report of her sister. "After all," she thought, hopefully, "it may all come right in the end. Who knows?" VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER FIVE. AS FATE WOULD HAVE IT. La femme qui ne cesse pas d'aimer celui qui l'a fut souffrir, parvient a l'aimer encore davantage. Let time and chance combine, combine. T. Carlyle's _Adieu_. Who knows, indeed! Gerald left Nunswell on Monday morning, and for the rest of that day Eugenia's thoughts were principally occupied in reflecting over all he had said, and wishing he had stayed longer and said more. She got up on Tuesday morning in the same spirit, and resolving to strike before the iron of her new determination to struggle against despondency and depression had had time to cool, she went out into the gardens armed with one of the few books she had brought with her, Schlegel's "Philosophie der Sprache," which she had been studying under her father's direction just before her illness. "I will force myself to read a certain quantity every day," she decided, as she ensconced herself on the same garden seat on which she and Gerald had sat on Sunday afternoon. All around her reminded her of their conversation, of his few words of encouragement and advice. "Trying must always be some good, whether one sees it or not, I suppose," thought Eugenia, and with this somewhat vague but certainly innocuous piece of philosophy she set to work at her self-appointed task. She found it harder than she had anticipated; considerably more so than it used to be; she did not make allowance for the effects of her illness, and entirely attributed the difficulty she met with to "stupidity" and "forgetfulness," and thereupon ensued a fit of self-disgust. "I to think myself clever, indeed!" she thought, "or able to be ever of use to any one. The first thing I have to do, it seems to me, is to get rid of my self-conceit. Why, I have forgotten more German in a month than I learnt in five years."