He clenched his fists and grinned with rage. “You tantalising little——” he began, lifting his fists expressively. She smiled. Then he swung round, knocked several hats flying off the stand in the hall, slammed the door, and was gone. Lettie continued to play for some time, after which she went up to her own room. Leslie did not return to us the next day, nor the day after. The first day Marie came and told us he had gone away to Yorkshire to see about the new mines that were being sunk there, and was likely to be absent for a week or so. These business visits to the north were rather frequent. The firm, of which Mr. Tempest was director and chief shareholder, were opening important new mines in the other county, as the seams at home were becoming exhausted or unprofitable. It was proposed that Leslie should live in Yorkshire when he was married, to superintend the new workings. He at first rejected the idea, but he seemed later to approve of it more. During the time he was away Lettie was moody and cross-tempered. She did not mention George nor the mill; indeed, she preserved her best, most haughty and ladylike manner. On the evening of the fourth day of Leslie’s absence we were out in the garden. The trees were “uttering joyous leaves.” My mother was in the midst of her garden, lifting the dusky faces of the auriculas to look at the velvet lips, or tenderly taking a young weed from the black soil. The thrushes were calling and clamouring all round. The japonica flamed on the wall as the light grew thicker; the tassels of white cherry-blossom swung gently in the breeze. “What shall I do, mother?” said Lettie, as she wandered across the grass to pick at the japonica flowers. “What shall I do?—There’s nothing to do.” “Well, my girl—what do you want to do? You have been moping about all day—go and see somebody.” “It’s such a long way to Eberwich.” “Is it? Then go somewhere nearer.” Lettie fretted about with restless, petulant indecision. “I don’t know what to do,” she said, “And I feel as if I might just as well never have lived at all as waste days like this. I wish we weren’t buried in this dead little hole—I wish we were near the town—it’s hateful having to depend on about two or three folk for your—your—your pleasure in life.” “I can’t help it, my dear—you must do something for yourself.” “And what can I do?—I can do nothing.” “Then I’d go to bed.” “That I won’t—with the dead weight of a wasted day on me. I feel as if I’d do something desperate.” “Very well, then,” said mother, “do it, and have done.”