We crossed the trim little lawn, and in a moment I had passed the portals of the Yellow House. The front door opened into a low, square hall, hung with old-fashioned engravings against a background of dark oak. There were rugs upon the polished floor, and several easy chairs and lounges. By the side of one was a box from Mudie’s, evidently just arrived, and a small wood fire was burning in the open grate. She laid her hand on the back of a low rocking chair. “Shall we sit here?” she suggested. “We can keep the door open and watch the storm. Or perhaps you would rather see as little of it as possible?” I took the easy chair opposite to her. “I don’t mind watching it from inside,” I answered. “I am not really nervous, but those trees look horribly unsafe. One wants to be on the moor to enjoy a thunderstorm.” She looked at me with a faint smile, kindly but critically. “No, you don’t look particularly nervous,” she said. “I wonder----” A crash of thunder drowned the rest of her sentence. In the silence which followed I found her studying my features intently. For some reason or other she seemed suddenly to have developed a new and strong interest in me. Her eyes were fastened upon my face. I began to feel almost uncomfortable. She suddenly realized it, and broke into a little laugh. “Forgive my staring at you so outrageously,” she exclaimed. “You must think me a very rude person. It is odd to meet any one in the woods about here, you know; and I don’t think that I have ever seen you before, have I?” I shook my head. “Probably not; unless you were at church yesterday,” I said. “Then I certainly have not, for I do not attend church,” she answered. “But you don’t live in church, do you?” I laughed. “Oh, no; but we have only been here a week or so,” I told her. “My name is Kate Ffolliot. I am the daughter of the new vicar, or, rather, curate-in-charge.” Once more the hall was filled with white light. There was a moment’s breathless silence, and then the thunder came crashing over our heads. When it was over she was leaning forward with her face buried in her hands. She did not look up immediately. “The thunder is awful!” I remarked. “I never heard it more directly overhead. I am afraid it is making you uncomfortable, is it not?” She did not move her hands or answer me. I rose to my feet, frightened. “What is the matter?” I cried. “Are you ill? Shall I call any one?” She raised her head and looked at me, motioning me to sit down with a little wave of her hand. Evidently the storm had affected her nerves. Her face was paler than ever save where her clenched fingers seemed to have cut into her cheeks and left red livid marks on either side. Her dark eyes were unnaturally bright and dry. She had lost that dignified serenity of manner which had first impressed me.