“And—and it hurts me, by George it does, Alston,” Tom said, “the way she cuts up rough with me. And now you go for me bald-headed, as if I’d behaved like a pig to her. Why goo-law, man, I’d lie down and let her jump on me. I’d go and drown myself if it would cause her any—any amusement.” There was a distinct suggestion of tears in the boy’s eyes, and Hugh turned hastily away. “Marjorie dear,” he was saying a while later, “what’s wrong? Tell me all about it. Tell your old friend Hugh, and see if he can put things right.” “There is nothing—nothing wrong, Hugh!” Marjorie gasped. “Nothing! Nothing in the world!” And she belied her statement by suddenly sobbing and hiding her face against his shoulder. “There, there—there!” he said, feeling as awkward as a man must feel when a woman cries to him. He patted her shoulder with the uncomfortable feeling that he was behaving like an idiot. “It—it is nothing!” she gasped. “Hugh, it is really nothing!” “Tom’s a good lad, one of the best—clean through and through!” “Yes, I know he is, and—and oh, I do know it, Hugh, and it isn’t Tom’s fault!” “Your aunt’s been worrying you?” “No, it is not that—oh, it is nothing, nothing in the world. It is only that I am a—a—little fool, an ungrateful, silly, little fool!” And Hugh was frankly puzzled. “You’re going to be as happy as the day is long, little girl,” he said. “Tom loves you, worships the ground you walk on; I think you’re going to be the happiest girl alive. Dry your tears, dear, and smile as you used to in the old days!” He stooped over her and pressed a kiss on her shining hair; and there came to her a mad, passionate longing to lift her arms and clasp them about his neck and confess all, confess her stupidity and her blindness and her folly. “It is you—you are the man I love. It is you I want—you all the time!” She longed to say it, but did not, and Hugh Alston never knew. Hurst Dormer looked empty, and seemed silent and dull after Cornbridge. No place was dull and certainly no place was silent where Lady Linden was, and coming back to Hurst Dormer, Hugh felt as if he was then entering into a desert of solitude and silence. “Everything has been quite all right,” said Mrs. Morrisey. “The men have got on nicely with their work. Lane has taken advantage of your being away to give the car a thorough overhaul, and—and I think that is all, sir. There are a few letters waiting for you. I’ll get them.” From whom this letter? Whose hand this? He wondered. He had never seen “Her” writing before, yet instinct told him that this was hers. Two minutes later Hugh Alston was behaving like a lunatic. “Mrs. Morrisey! Mrs. Morrisey! When did this letter come?” “Oh, that one, sir? It came ten days ago—the very day you left, the same evening.” “Then why—why in the name of Heaven—” he began, and then stopped himself, for he remembered that he had ordered no letters should be sent on. “I hope it is not important, sir?”