But had she yet endured her hell? Of the hours spent with Rotherby on the moor before the coming of the child her memory was vague. A long wandering, coupled with a growing fear, and at the last an overwhelming sense of evil that she was powerless to combat were the only impressions that remained to her. But with a great vividness did she remember how she had surrendered herself to him the evening before, and burned with shame at the memory. No, she never wanted to see him again, and she longed to destroy his letter unread. The very touch of it was horrible to her. But something stayed her hand. Something called within her—a mocking, elusive something that taunted her courage. What was there in a letter to frighten her? If she were sure of herself—if she were sure of herself—She tore open the envelope with a gesture of exasperation. Of course she was sure of herself! “Circe, my beloved!” So the note began, and before her eyes there swam a mist. No man in the whole world had ever called her beloved before! She gripped herself firmly, nerving herself for the ordeal. This was not Love—this was not Love! This was an evil that must be firmly met and cast out. But ah, if it had been Love! Resolutely she read the letter through. It was written from the inn at Fordestown. “I lost you on that night of fog, but I have found you again, and I have been waiting ever since. They tell me you are better, but I can’t meet you among strangers. When will you come to me? Come soon, Circe beloved! Come soon! “I am yours, M. R.” She looked up from the letter. So he was waiting for her still! Somehow she had thought that he would not have deemed it worth his while. A curious dazed feeling possessed her. He was waiting for her still! The ordeal was not over yet. How was she going to face it? There came a knock at the door—Nell’s boyish knock. She entered, carrying a tray with cocoa and cream upon it. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “I hope you haven’t been wanting it very badly.” Frances crumpled the letter in her hand. She looked at the girl and saw that Nell’s usually rosy face was pale. “Is anything the matter, Nell?” she said. Nell’s chin quivered at the question. “Oh, there’s been a frightful row,” she said. “But I mustn’t tell you anything about it. Arthur would be furious if he knew.” “You needn’t be afraid of that,” said Frances. “He won’t know.” “Thank you,” the girl said, and dried her eyes. “But I can’t tell you all the same. It wouldn’t be fair. You don’t know the beast’s ways, and it’s a good thing you don’t. Please don’t ask me anything—or I shall say too much! I know I shall.” “My dear, I don’t want you to tell me anything against your will,” Frances said kindly.