Mrs. Keith stooped forward, shaken by a sob. "But if one cannot—cannot—confess—will He have mercy?" "He knows if you really cannot. If it is for the sake of others—not your own sake—that you don't speak." Afterwards she wondered what made her say this. "I think one should always tell—if not publicly, at least to some one. And then one might be helped." No reply came. Mrs. Keith remained in the same position till they reached their station. By that time the storm was lessening, and she walked from the boat with little help, her face averted from Phyllys. The girl wondered—had she given offence? On reaching the châlet, a fresh effort was made to induce Mrs. Keith to put off her journey, but she was obdurate. She meant to go; she would go. She was fit only for home. Then, in her own room,—"Did I talk nonsense in the boat, Phyllys? Lightning affects my head so strangely. I never know what I am saying while a storm lasts." Phyllys looked at her with serious eyes. "I don't know," she said. "It didn't sound at the time like nonsense." "I've no doubt it was, if it makes you so terrifically grave. Well, thank goodness, this is nearly the end. I shall never attempt another funicular railway, and I have had enough of Switzerland. Now you must go to bed. Most of your packing is done, I suppose. You said you would see to it yesterday evening. That is right. I long to be safe at my beloved Castle Hill." And the next day they started. CHAPTER XXVII RENEWED FIGHTING "IN the lives of most men there has been a week, at the memory of which ever afterwards a dark cloud comes down, and makes a possibly sunny world momentarily a place of gloom." So says that forceful writer, "Linesman." Such a week had Giles known earlier; a week, followed by months of pain, but in itself sufficient when recalled to bring a cloud, making his "possibly sunny world a place of gloom." The sorest loss, the most passionate remorse, though they may promise to shadow life's future, do from the nature of things, in the course of time, sink into the background, and fail to quench all hope; forming indeed a burden, yet one to which the shoulders have grown used. But in the background the burden still is, at seasons making itself felt. That week, the recollection of which could never grow dim, the results of which could never cease to be, belonged to boyhood. Since then, recently, he had lived through another stringent week—in which he had awakened to his love for Phyllys, and to the fact that she was beloved by Colin. Which last discovery involved two other discoveries; first, that it was his duty to yield her up; and secondly, that he had not power to do so. In the strife, his sense of duty succumbed before the vehemence of his love.