Margaret sometimes wondered how she lived through that day. Mr. Farley sent her a little note releasing her from her engagement, but saying that if at any time she wanted to come back he would gladly take her on again. Margaret felt it to be a kindly letter. Oddly enough, too, a note came from the agency in the Strand, asking her to call the next day. "I will," she thought, "if I have had a letter from my mother." At the bottom of her heart there was some uneasiness, and once or twice it occurred to her that she would go back to Chidhurst and ask a neighbor to take her in, but the inhabitants of Woodside Farm had always kept their affairs to themselves, and she did not want to give occasion for gossip in the village. She read her mother's letter again. No, there was nothing in it to be alarmed about; it was only her own miserable state of mind. She was desperate, maddened, ashamed every time she remembered Tom and his kisses, and her own protestations to him. She couldn't bear to think that he was with Lena—Lena who would never love him as she did. Somehow, too, at the bottom of her heart, she felt that there was trickery in the whole business. She didn't know how or where, only that Mrs. Lakeman's manner had not been very real; but everything in the world had become unreal and torturing. There was only one thing left that could comfort her—home and mother. She hungered and thirsted for her home. She wanted to see her mother's face, to sit on the arm of her chair in the living-room, to talk to her, even to hear Hannah scold. She wanted to go up to the wood and to think out the nightmare of the last few hours in her cathedral. She imagined the great rest of arriving at Haslemere Station, of walking the long six miles to Woodside Farm, of entering the porch and finding her mother sitting there. Oh! but it was no good; Hannah would not allow her to enter. Hannah was a firm woman who kept her word, and would think that she proved her religion by being cruel. As the day went on and no telegram came from Tom, the latent hope she had unconsciously cherished vanished. It was all true, then, and he really cared for Lena.

"I'm glad mother didn't know," she thought; "it would have made her so unhappy when this ending came; and I couldn't have borne Hannah's gibes." She longed desperately for some one to speak to, but there was no one; besides, her lips were closed; she had promised to be silent. Suddenly, she remembered Miss Hunstan; she would write to her. But no, it was impossible; she had left Bayreuth and the new address had not yet come. "And I don't know what to do, or what to say to father," she thought. "Oh, it's maddening. If it were a case of life and death I could bear it, but this is some trick, I know it—it is a case of sham life and death."

Late in the afternoon Sir George Stringer called. He entered awkwardly, as if he were afraid of meeting her; but the moment he saw her face he knew that something was the matter, and all his self-consciousness vanished.

"I told you I should come again," he said; "there is no reason why I shouldn't look after my old friend's girl, is there?"

"No, none," she answered, hardly able to collect her senses sufficiently to talk to him.

He looked at her sharply. "Something's the matter," he said; "you have been crying?"

"Oh no—yes, I have been crying; I am very homesick." He put his hand on hers as her father might have done.

"Take my advice and go home, my dear," he said. "Is the stage fever over?"

"Yes; I suppose that's over."

He looked at her again, then suddenly he asked: "Has Tom Carringford been playing fast and loose with you?"

"Don't ask me any questions, dear Sir George; I don't want to say anything at all. He is in Scotland with Lena Lakeman."

"He is a fool," he said, with conviction.

"So am I," she answered, ruefully.

"And I'm another. My dear, I'm not going to ask you to tell me anything you want to keep to yourself." He stopped for a moment, then he asked, awkwardly, "I suppose what I asked you the other day is impossible?" For answer she only nodded, and her eyes filled with tears. "Then we won't say anything more about it." He took her hands and held them tightly in his own. "But I should like to be your friend—your father, if you like, till your own returns. If you can't go home to your mother, or if that young bounder at Guildford worries, or if there is any reason of that sort, why shouldn't you go to my house by the church and shut yourself up there? You would be very comfortable. I thought of going there myself, but I could easily go somewhere else."

It seemed a good idea at first, and she caught at it, then she shook her head.

"No," she said; "people would know and they would talk."

"I suppose they would—damn them. I wish you'd tell me what Master Tom has been up to, dear."

"I can't talk about him to-day, Sir George; I can't talk about anything—my head is so bad. I wish you would go now," she said, but so very gently it was impossible that he could be hurt, "and come and see me to-morrow; my mother is not well and I am worried. To-morrow I shall have thought out plans and will gladly talk them over with you. I want some one's help and advice."

"I think you do," he answered, "and I'll come to-morrow, my dear."

Margaret sat and thought again when she was alone; she had thought and thought since Mrs. Lakeman had gone that morning till her head was dazed, but it was no good; the whole thing was a cul-de-sac. Then an inspiration seized her. "I'll write to Hannah," she said, "and beg her to let me go home and see my mother for a little while, at any rate. She'll get the letter in the morning, and I'll ask her to telegraph if I may go." She sat down at once and told Hannah, with all the vehemence in her heart, that she had never cared for Mr. Garratt; that perhaps she had even cared for somebody else; that she had given up her engagement at Mr. Farley's theatre; that she was miserable about her mother, and wanted to come and see her; would Hannah telegraph in the morning if she might come at once, even for a few hours. She felt better when she had written it, and determined to go out and post it herself. She was just starting when Dawson Farley appeared. His heart had smote him for his share in the morning's transactions.

"I thought I would come round and tell you how sorry I am at your resignation," he said.

"And it was so unnecessary, after all, for my sudden engagement to Mr. Carringford is broken off."

"I know."

"How do you know?" she asked, astonished.

"Mrs. Lakeman came to see me and told me."

"Oh yes, Mrs. Lakeman," she answered, bitterly. "Is Lena really dangerously ill?" She wondered at her own question, but some other self had asked it—a self that doubted everything.

Mr. Farley, too, was taken by surprise. "I suppose so," he said, with a little smile. "Mrs. Lakeman's facts are sometimes a little elusive; but she can hardly have invented that one. Carringford has always been by way of—I mean he has always been considered Lena Lakeman's property." Quite suddenly Margaret lost her self-control for a moment, and shudderingly put her hands over her face.

"I'm sorry if she's ill, but I do dislike her so," she said.

Mr. Farley, too, was off his guard. "I hate her," he said, quickly. "Tell me, frankly, what you think about it?"

But Margaret shook her head impatiently. "I oughtn't to have said that; and I can't talk about it, Mr. Farley. I'm sure you will understand that the whole thing is painful, and not one that I can discuss."

"At any rate, I may congratulate you on your father's probable return?"

"Oh, he will not be here for a long time."

"But you know that his brother is dead?"

She started to her feet. "When did he die; how did you know?"

"He died yesterday after an operation at Melbourne. I have just seen it in an evening paper," Mr. Farley answered.

"Oh, my dear mother, she will get my father back," burst from Margaret's lips. "She is ill, but this news will make her better. I have been writing to my half-sister"—and she took up the letter—"I will open it and tell her, for she may not know." Without knowing it, she showed her impatience to be alone, and in a few minutes Dawson Farley discreetly took his leave.

"I'm not going on with it," he thought, as he walked back to Victoria Street. "That girl is a sweet woman, dignified and courageous, and I can't be turned into a common scoundrel to please Mrs. Lakeman."

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