As to where she should hide it she had no difficulty in determining. She knew of but one place, and she was convinced she could not have known a better. The ruined hut in the copse off the Shipley Road, whither in the dear, dead days beyond recall she had stolen for Old Tommish purposes, was in every way safe and suitable. None visited there at ordinary times; now that the country-side was no longer being searched for the Rose save by herself, it was as safe as ever. She would leave her cat there this day and night. Upon this determination the remarkable woman acted; before proceeding to Herons' Holt secured her cat in that inner room of the hut where, but a few days previously, the Rose herself had lain. When she reached the house a maid told her that Mr. Marrapit was closeted with young Mr. Wyvern. IV. During the afternoon Mrs. Major visited her cat, taking it milk. That evening, Mary and Margaret being elsewhere together, she was able to enjoy a quiet hour with Mr. Marrapit. He was heavily depressed: “A week has passed, Mrs. Major. Something tells me I never again will see my Rose. This day I have sent young Mr. Wyvern and Mr. Brunger after my nephew George. The clue he claims to know is my last chance. I have no faith in it. Put not your trust--” Mr. Marrapit allowed a melancholy sigh to conclude his sentence. This man had suffered much. Mrs. Major clasped her hands. “Oh, do not give up hope, Mr. Marrapit. Something tells me you _will_ see her--soon, very soon.” Mr. Marrapit sighed. “You are always encouraging, Mrs. Major.” “Something tells me that I have reason to be, Mr. Marrapit. Last night I dreamed that the Rose was found.” The encouraging woman leaned forward; said impressively, “I dreamed that I found her.” Mr. Marrapit did not respond to her tone. Melancholy had this man in leaden grip. “I lose hope,” he said. “Man is born unto trouble as the sparks fly upward. Do not trust in dreams.” “Oh, but I _do_!” Mrs. Major said with girlish impulsiveness. “I _do_. I always have. My dreams so often come true. Do not lose hope, Mr. Marrapit.” She continued with a beautiful air of timidity: “Oh, Mr. Marrapit, I know I am only here on sufferance, but your careworn air emboldens me to suggest--it might keep your poor mind from thinking--a game of backgammon such as we used to play before--” She sighed. “I should like it,” Mr. Marrapit answered. Mrs. Major arranged the board; drew Mr. Marrapit's favourite chair to the table; rattled the dice. After a few moves, “Oh, you're not beating me as you used to,” she said archly. “I am out of practice,” Mr. Marrapit confessed. Mrs. Major paused in the act of throwing her dice. “Out of practice! But surely Miss Humfray plays with you?” “She does not.” Mrs. Major gave a sigh that suggested more than she dared say.