Then, with an inward passion of denial, she shook the whole nightmare from her. Outrage!--treason!--to those helpless memories of which she was now the only guardian. In these easy, forgetting days, when the old passions and endurances look to us either affected or eccentric, such a life, such an exile as her father's, may seem strange even--so she accused herself--to that father's child. But that is because we are mean souls beside those who begot us. We cannot feel as they; and our constancy, compared to theirs, is fickleness. So, in spirit, she knelt again beside her dead, embracing their cold feet and asking pardon. The tears clouded her eyes; she wandered blindly on through the wood till she was conscious of sudden light and space. She had come to a clearing, where several huge beeches had been torn up by a storm some years before. Their place had been filled by a tangle of many saplings, and in their midst rose an elder-bush, already showing leaf, amid the bare winterly wood. The last western light caught the twinkling leaf buds, and made of the tree a Burning Bush, first herald of the spring. The sight of it unloosed some swell of passion in Diana; she found herself smiling amid her tears, and saying incoherent things that only the wood caught. To-day was the meeting of Parliament. She pictured the scene. Marsham was there, full of projects and ambitions. Innocently, exultantly, she reminded herself how much she knew of them. If he could not have her sympathy, he must have her antagonism. But no chilling exclusions and reserves! Rather, a generous confidence on his side; and a gradual, a child-like melting and kindling on hers. In politics she would never agree with him--never!--she would fight him with all her breath and strength. But not with the methods of Mrs. Fotheringham. No!--what have politics to do with--with-- She dropped her face in her hands, laughing to herself, the delicious tremors of first love running through her. Would she hear from him? She understood she was to be written to, though she had never asked it. But ought she to allow it? Was it _convenable_? She knew that girls now did what they liked--threw all the old rules overboard. But--proudly--she stood by the old rules; she would do nothing "fast" or forward. Yet she was an orphan--standing alone; surely for her there might be more freedom than for others?