“I wrote from Monteriano. I tried to explain things; but she will never understand me. Her view will be that the affair is settled--sadly settled since the baby is dead. Still it’s over; our family circle need be vexed no more. She won’t even be angry with you. You see, you have done us no harm in the long run. Unless, of course, you talk about Harriet and make a scandal. So that is my plan--London and work. What is yours?” “Poor Harriet!” said Miss Abbott. “As if I dare judge Harriet! Or anybody.” And without replying to Philip’s question she left him to visit the other invalid. Philip gazed after her mournfully, and then he looked mournfully out of the window at the decreasing streams. All the excitement was over--the inquest, Harriet’s short illness, his own visit to the surgeon. He was convalescent, both in body and spirit, but convalescence brought no joy. In the looking-glass at the end of the corridor he saw his face haggard, and his shoulders pulled forward by the weight of the sling. Life was greater than he had supposed, but it was even less complete. He had seen the need for strenuous work and for righteousness. And now he saw what a very little way those things would go. “Is Harriet going to be all right?” he asked. Miss Abbott had come back to him. “She will soon be her old self,” was the reply. For Harriet, after a short paroxysm of illness and remorse, was quickly returning to her normal state. She had been “thoroughly upset” as she phrased it, but she soon ceased to realize that anything was wrong beyond the death of a poor little child. Already she spoke of “this unlucky accident,” and “the mysterious frustration of one’s attempts to make things better.” Miss Abbott had seen that she was comfortable, and had given her a kind kiss. But she returned feeling that Harriet, like her mother, considered the affair as settled. “I’m clear enough about Harriet’s future, and about parts of my own. But I ask again, What about yours?” “Sawston and work,” said Miss Abbott. “No.” “Why not?” she asked, smiling. “You’ve seen too much. You’ve seen as much and done more than I have.” “But it’s so different. Of course I shall go to Sawston. You forget my father; and even if he wasn’t there, I’ve a hundred ties: my district--I’m neglecting it shamefully--my evening classes, the St. James’--” “Silly nonsense!” he exploded, suddenly moved to have the whole thing out with her. “You’re too good--about a thousand times better than I am. You can’t live in that hole; you must go among people who can hope to understand you. I mind for myself. I want to see you often--again and again.” “Of course we shall meet whenever you come down; and I hope that it will mean often.” “It’s not enough; it’ll only be in the old horrible way, each with a dozen relatives round us. No, Miss Abbott; it’s not good enough.” “We can write at all events.” “You will write?” he cried, with a flush of pleasure. At times his hopes seemed so solid. “I will indeed.”