The colour had rushed back into her cheeks; she held herself erect, transfigured by the emotion that possessed her. Catharine looked at her in doubt--trouble--amazement. And then, her pure sense divined something--dimly--of what the full history of this soul had been; and her heart melted. She put out her hands and drew the speaker down again into the seat beside her. "I think you'll have to let him decide that for you. He's a strong man--and a wise man. He'll judge what's right. And I ought to warn you that he'll be here probably--very soon. He wanted to see me." Alice opened her startled eyes. "About this? To see you? I don't understand." "I had one of these letters--these wicked letters," said Catharine reluctantly. Alice shrank and trembled. "It's terrible!"--her voice was scarcely to be heard. "Who is it hates me so?--or Richard?" There was silence a moment. And in the pause the stress and tumult of nature without, the beating of the wind, and the plashing of the rain, seemed to be rushing headlong through the little room. But neither Catharine nor Alice was aware of it, except in so far as it played obscurely on Alice's tortured nerves, fevering and goading them the more. Catharine's gaze was bent on her companion; her mind was full of projects of help, which were also prayers; moments in that ceaseless dialogue with a Greater than itself, which makes the life of the Christian. And it was as though, by some secret influence, her prayers worked on Alice; for presently she turned in order that she might look straight into the face beside her. "I'd like to tell you"--she said faintly--"oh--I'd like to tell you!" "Tell me anything you will."