This plain, forming part of the grounds belonging to Hazelton, possesses the double charm of being easier of access than the strand, and of being strictly private. It is the 17th of April--a cold day, but fresh, with little sunshine anywhere. I am sauntering along my usual path to my sandy plain, thoughtless of anything in the present, innocent of presentiments, when suddenly before me, as though arisen out of the earth, stands Sir Mark Gore. How long is it since last I saw him?--not months surely?--it seems more like yesterday. Why do I feel no surprise, no emotion? Is the mind within me indeed dead? I am more puzzled by my own unnatural calmness at this moment than even by an event so unexpected as his presence here. We both stand still and gaze at each other. As far as I am concerned, time dies; I forget these weary months at Hazelton. I think of our parting at Strangemore. His eyes are reading, examining with undisguised pain, the changes in my face and form. At length he speaks. "I hardly thought to meet you here, Mrs. Carrington," he says, advancing slowly, and addressing me in the low, hushed tone one adopts towards the sick or dying. He appears agitated. I regard him with fixed coldness. "You, who know all," I say, with quiet emphasis, "why do you call me by that name? Call me Phyllis; that, at least still remains to me." He flushes crimson, and a pained look comes into hie eyes. "I suppose," I go on, curiously, "that last warning you gave Marmaduke at the library door at home--at Strangemore," correcting myself without haste, "had reference to--that woman? Am I right?" "Yes; I regret now having ever uttered it." "Regrets are useless, and your words did no harm. Thinking of things since, I knew they must have meant an allusion to her." "How calmly you speak of it!" he says, amazed. "I speak as I feel," I reply. There is rather an awkward pause. Now that he is here, the question naturally presents itself--for what reason has he come? At length--- "Will you not say you are glad to see me?" ventures Sir Mark, uneasily. "I am neither glad nor sorry," is my unmoved return; "I have forgotten to be emotional. I believe my real feeling just now is indifference. Considering how unlooked-for is your presence here, it astonishes even myself that I can call up so little surprise. Curious, is it not? You look thin, I think, and older--not so well as when last we met." He grows a shade paler. "Do I?" Then, drawing a hard, quick breath--"And you, child, what have you been doing with yourself? Except for your eyes, it is hardly you I see. So white, so worn, so changed; this place is killing you." "It is a very quiet place. It suits me better than any other could." "I tell you it is killing you," he repeats, angrily. "Better to face and endure the world's talk at once, than linger here until body and soul part."