“I say, there’s going to be a general practice, and we’re going to —— College. We’ll be sure to see Mr ——. He’s there, you know.” But she didn’t relish this piece of news; she would very much rather not have gone. She had known all along that he had come back to London as a master in the college which he had left two years ago; he was clever. So the night for the practice came and went. When they got back again this girl, whose name was Minnie, came flying up to her. “I say, did Mr —— speak to you?” “No.” “But you saw him?” “Yes.” “And he never spoke to you?” “I never looked at him.” “You couldn’t help it. You sat just at the other side of the table.” “I never looked at him. Did he speak to you?” “Oh, yes. He was quite nice. Much nicer than he used to be. I thought he would have forgotten me. I never spoke to him half as much as you did. How strange that he should have forgotten you.” “I—yes.” “What’s that?” said another girl who had just come in. “Oh! we’re only talking about someone Deborah used to run after.” “What about him?” said the other, and she laughed very loudly. “Well, it’s like this,” Deborah replied. “Two years ago I fell desperately in love with a young man, but it was one-sided. Naturally, the next time I met him he didn’t know me.” “But the strange part about it is that he should remember me,” persisted Minnie. “Well, you see,” laughed Deborah, “I expect all the time I was in love with him he was in love with you,” and she walked away. But that night, when the silence bell rang, she hid her face in the solitary pillow. “I’d have forgiven him if he’d forgotten her too; but to remember her after two years, and to forget me after four months, it’s too bad—it’s too bad,” and she lay awake for a long time, too miserable to cry, too restless to sleep. “Besides, he never knew her except the little bit I told him about her, and that never interested him. He tells lies—so now!” However, it’s no use dwelling on these things; but Providence was kind enough to let her see him once more, in just about as tantalising a way. And something had said, “Go and speak to him;” and something else had said, “Come away.” And she went away, feeling more like a wild cat than a woman. “If—if—” she gasped. “Life is made up of ifs,” laughed a voice in her ear, and it was all over. The older Deborah grew, the more unhappy she grew inwardly. Not that anybody knew—for in college they never took her to be anything seriously but sleepy. For one thing, as she grew older, she was beginning to feel more and more the want of some religion. Many and many a time she would get out of bed in the middle of the night and kneel down and try to pray. But on every occasion a feeling of intensest blackness would surround her, and she was bound to give it up.