She turned her head sharply, and looked straight into his eyes under the brim of her shady gray hat. “_I hate him!_” she whispered, emphatically, drawing her full red lips back from her white teeth, with a grimace which had something animal in its ferocity. He felt startled and chilled by the sight. He knew quite well that Stella did not love her father. In her frank and naïve confidences, she had acknowledged this, but always with regret. To-day, with her beauty enhanced by what seemed a sudden and astonishing return to bodily health, she seemed already to have lost some of the womanly charm which had gone as far to win his heart as her personal attraction. Even before the bridal pair had entered the train at Grayling Station, Lord Carthew began to be glad of his bride’s silence. So long as she sat by his side without speaking, beautiful as a poet’s dream, he could go on attributing to her all kinds of ideal qualities. But, although he would hardly yet acknowledge it even to himself, when she spoke she dispelled the illusion. Not only did she display the utmost vindictiveness on the mention of her father’s name, but she appeared hardly to listen when he spoke to her of his mother, and of the latter’s admiration for his bride; and when he went on to descant on the beauties of the scenery in which they were going to pass the first days of the honeymoon, she cut him short by saying, abruptly, that she would “sooner go to London.” Her voice jarred upon him. Hitherto he had admired its melodious accents--to-day they sounded hoarse and rough, and he inquired anxiously if she had taken a chill. “No,” she answered, staring vacantly at him. “Why do you ask?” “Your voice sounded a little strained and hoarse to me.” “I have a bad cold,” she said, quickly. “I did not like to worry you about it before. I caught it last night. Sir Philip had kept me a prisoner in my room ever since my mother’s death, and last night while dew and rain were falling I managed to give them all the slip and ran into the wood. I got my feet wet, lost my voice, and have been feeling queer ever since.” This was the longest speech she had made that day. Lord Carthew listened to it, trying in vain to catch the sweet cadences of the voice which he had loved so well. In some way, for which he was at a loss to account, the soul seemed to have gone out of the girl beside him, leaving only the beautiful body behind it. He tried to think that she was nervous in her new position, and hoped that time and companionship would bring back that frank confidence which had so much delighted him. But meantime he also relapsed into silence, which was hardly broken until they reached the railway station at Grayling.