At half-past eleven we gave up hope. "He can't be coming to-night," Ruth told Phyllida. "Let's all go to bed; we shall hear something in the morning." "He _said_ he would come," Phyllida answered. There was another aimless discussion when we were all so tired that we could hardly keep our eyes open. Brackenbury went out to see what _he_ could do with the girl--and returned to say that she had vanished! Oh, my dear! Our _feelings_ I leave you to imagine. In some directions Phyllida has a wild, insane pride ... and she had seen it dragged in the mire before the eyes of us all. When I spoke of love degenerating into obsession, I chose my words with care: for months the child had been so _distraught_ that I felt a _very_ little more might upset her reason. Rapidly reviewing all that had passed that day, I recalled the utter desperation of her behaviour--the ruined gambler's last throw... We stood as though we had been carved out of stone, _staring_ at Brackenbury while he _stared_ at us ... white as paper. He was thinking of the river... We seemed unable to move... At last Spenworth hurled himself through the door, with Brackenbury, Culroyd, Arthur, goodness knows who at his heels. I caught Will's arm and went with him on to the terrace; it was time that _some one_ kept his head. Do you know, I had a premonition: a moonless night, that inky river, demented, shouting men jostling one another on the bank and in the water, plunging and splashing, a cry for help, some one caught in the reeds, two--three tragedies instead of one... "The boat-house, Will," I urged. We dashed along the terrace and across the lawn. Suddenly I stopped. Ahead of me--in the darkness I could not see how far--there was a flash of white. It vanished, appeared again, vanished again. "_This_ way," I said. And I could have sobbed aloud. Instead of making for the river, poor Phyllida was roaming distractedly towards the lodge. We heard her feet stumbling on and off the gravel, there came the moan of a tortured animal... The footsteps ceased abruptly, the white coat vanished... She had left the drive and turned away behind a clump of laurel. I heard her crying as though her heart would break... "I can run no farther," I said to Will. "And an old woman like me is no good to her now. Go to her and comfort her. You have always loved her, so you will know what to say. If she breaks her heart, she will break yours too; you will never forgive yourself for abandoning her. Let her see that, however lonely and deserted she may feel, one staunch friend is true to her through all things. It is your right and privilege to share her sorrow and, if may be, to assuage it."