Herold tried to question Stella on the subject, but met with no response. “Let us talk of pleasant things,” she pleaded. He went away sorrowful, knowing the conflict in her soul--knowing, too, that the strong soul has to fight its battles unaided. Meanwhile Stella put on a smiling face to the world,--for, after all, the world smiled on her,--and she was gentle with Sir Oliver and Lady Blount. She mingled in such social life as the neighbourhood afforded--a luncheon party, a garden party, where young men fell at her feet in polite adoration, and young women put their arms round her waist and talked to her of hats. She liked them all well enough, but shyly evaded intimacy. They belonged to a race of beings with whom she was unfamiliar, having passed their lives in a different spiritual sphere. They frightened her ever so little; why, she did not know, for her unused power of self-analysis was not sufficiently strong to enable her to realize the instinctive shrinking from those, strangers to her, who had been drenched from childhood in the mysterious and dreadful knowledge of evil. She met them only on the common ground of youth and talked of superficial things, fearing to inquire more deeply into their thoughts and lives. “I love to see her enjoying herself,” said Lady Blount. Sir Oliver rubbed his hands, and agreed for once with his wife. “There's nothing like a little harmless gaiety for a girl,” said he. “She has been shut up with us old fogies too long.” “She's beginning to realize now,” said Lady Blount, “the happiness that lies before her in the new condition of things.” ONE day when Stella was returning, unattended, from a small shopping excursion in the village, a thin-lipped woman in black crossed the road just before the turn that led to the gate to the Channel House and accosted her. “Miss Blount?” “Yes,” said Stella, coming to a halt. She had noticed the woman for some little time walking on the opposite side of the way, and had been struck by a catlike stealthiness in her gait. Now, face to face with the woman, she met a pair of pale-green, almost expressionless eyes fixed on her with an odd relentlessness. The woman's lips were twisted into the convention of a smile. “Could I have the pleasure of a few words with you?” “Certainly,” said Stella. “Will you come into the house with me? We are almost there.” “If you will excuse me, Miss Blount,” said the woman, holding up a deprecating hand,--she was well-gloved and was dressed like a lady,--“I would rather not go in with you. I have my reasons. I must speak with you entirely in private. If we go round here, there is a comfortable seat.” Near the point at which they were standing the road up the cliff diverged into two forks. The upper fork led to the gate of the Channel House. The lower one was a pathway round the breast of the cliff. The woman pointed to the latter. Stella hesitated. “What have you so private to tell me that we can't talk in the garden?”