Hester paused irresolute on the bridge, and looked back toward Burwood. A light appeared in what was no doubt the sitting-room window. A lamp perhaps that, in view of the premature darkening of the afternoon by the heavy storm-clouds from the north, a servant had just brought in. Hester watched it in a kind of panic, foreseeing the moment when the curtains would be drawn and the light shut out from her. She thought of the little room within, the warm firelight, Mary with her beautiful hair--and Mrs. Elsmere. They were perhaps working and reading--as though that were all there were to do and think about in the world! No, no! after all they couldn't be very peaceful--or very cheerful. Mary was engaged to Uncle Richard now; and Uncle Richard must be pretty miserable. The exhausted girl nearly turned back toward that light. Then a hand came quietly and shut it out. The curtains were drawn. Nothing now to be seen of the little house but its dim outlines in the oncoming twilight, the smoke blown about its roof, and a faint gleam from a side-window, perhaps the kitchen. Suddenly, a thought, a wild, attacking thought, leapt out upon her, and held her there motionless, in the winding, wintry lane. When had she sent that telegram to Upcote? If she could only remember! The events of the preceding forty-eight hours seemed to be all confused in one mad flux of misery. Was it _possible_ that they too could be Here--Uncle Richard, and "Aunt Alice?" She had said something about Mrs. Elsmere in her telegram--she could not recollect what. That had been meant to comfort them, and yet to keep them away, to make them leave her to her own plans. But supposing, instead, its effect had been to bring them here at once, in pursuit of her? She hurried forward, sobbing dry sobs of terror as though she already heard their steps behind her. What was she afraid of? Simply their love!--simply their sorrow! She had broken their hearts; and what could she say to them? The recollection of all her cruelty to "Aunt Alice" in Paris--her neglect, her scorn, her secret, unjust anger with those who had kept from her the facts of her birth--seemed to rise up between her and all ideas of hope and help. Oh, of course they would be kind to her!--they would forgive her--but--but she couldn't bear it! Impatience with the very scene of wailing and forgiveness she foresaw, as of something utterly futile and vain, swept through the quivering nerves. "And it can never be undone!" she said to herself roughly, as though she were throwing the words in some one's face. "It can never, _never_ be undone! What's the good of talking?"