‘Mr. Wyndham! Don’t go away like this. If I have offended you, I am sorry; I’—her lips begin to tremble now, and the eyes that are uplifted to his are dim—‘I am dreadfully sorry. Oh, don’t go away like this! Forgive me!’ Suddenly she bursts into tears. ‘Do forgive me!’ ‘Forgive? I? It is you who have to forgive,’ stammers he. ‘Ella!’ He has laid his hand upon hers to draw them from her eyes, but with a sudden movement she breaks from him and runs back to the house. At the door, however, she stops, and glances back at him, and he can see that her face is radiant now, though her eyes are still wet with their late tears. ‘Good-bye! Good-bye!’ cries she. She raises both her hands to her lips, and in the prettiest, the most graceful fashion flings him a last farewell. This manner of hers is new to him. It is full, not only of friendliness, but of the joy of one who has been restored once more to happiness. * * * * * On the avenue of Crosby Park Wyndham meets the master of it, who has plainly been strolling this way with a view to meeting him on his return. ‘Well!’ says Crosby. Then, seeing the other’s face, ‘I was right, then?’ ‘You were. She had made her way in, and insulted the poor child in the most violent way.’ ‘I felt sure she was up to mischief,’ says Crosby, colouring hotly; he, too, is conscious of strong resentment. That anyone should go from his house to deliberately annoy a girl—a young girl, and one so sadly circumstanced—makes his usually easy-going blood boil. ‘I thought her manner to you at breakfast was over-suave. Well?’ ‘There is hardly anything to tell you. That she was there, that she spoke as few women would have had the heart to do, is all I am sure of. No; this more: that that poor child, thank God! didn’t understand half of her vile insinuations. I could see so much. But she was cut to the heart, for all that. If you could have seen her face, so white, so frightened! I tell you this, Crosby——’ He never told him, however. He broke off short—as if not able to trust his voice, and Crosby, after one sharp glance at him, bestowed all his attention on the gravel at his feet. And as he waited for the other to recover his serenity, he shook his head over the whole affair. Yes, this was always the end of this sort of thing. If Wyndham didn’t know it, he did. Wyndham was desperately in love with this ‘waif’ of his—with this girl who had sprung out of nowhere, who had been flung upon his hands out of the angry tide of life. Presently, seeing Wyndham continuing silent, as if lost in a train of thought, he breaks in. ‘How did you know Mrs. Prior was there?’ ‘From herself.’ ‘What! you met her?’ ‘Just outside the gate.’ ‘And’—Crosby here shows signs of hopeful joy—‘had it out with her?’