But Sophy did not write to Mr. Surtees, as she had said so boldly that she would do. All that was finest in her rebelled at the idea when she came to think it over clearly. It was quite impossible for her to write thus cold-bloodedly and ask the old solicitor what would be her prospects as Bobby's mother, in the event of the sudden death of the man who had really been to her like the kindest, most indulgent of brothers.

Instead, she wrote to Gerald himself, telling him of her proposed divorce and her determination not to accept alimony or avail herself of the marriage settlement arranged by her sister's husband without her knowledge. She asked him not to tell Lady Wychcote of this matter until it should be accomplished. She said simply: "So you see, dear Gerald, as things will be, I shall not have the means to educate Bobby as his father wished. Will you do it for Cecil's son, dear Gerald? Somehow, I don't mind asking you this at all. I feel, indeed, that you would be hurt if I did not ask it."

Gerald's answer came with the name of a steamer written on the envelope to insure promptness. Sophy cried when she read that letter.

"Dear Sophy," he wrote, "I am more touched than I can express by your confidence in me. I beg you not to give another thought to the matter. All shall be just as before your present marriage. I only hope that you will resume Cecil's name again when you are at liberty to do so. As Bobby's mother, it seems to me that it would be more fitting. I am very happy to think of your being in England again. Don't make it too long, and don't think, 'There's that poor, hipped old rotter Gerald, mooning about himself—but sometimes I have a beastly feeling that I mayn't see you again. And as you know, I'm rather fond of you, old girl. Love to the little chap. G."

One thing in his letter, however, seemed odd to them all. It was his suggestion that she should take Chesney's name again, after her divorce. About this, on the Judge's advice, she did write to Mr. Surtees. She herself, as Bobby's mother, would have much preferred to be called Mrs. Chesney. She did not wish to go on calling herself "Mrs. Morris Loring." She felt very sure that within a short time after the divorce there would be another "Mrs. Morris Loring." She awaited Mr. Surtees's reply with some anxiety. It was quite satisfactory. He expressed himself as of the opinion that it would be "quite natural, fitting, and possible for Mrs. Loring to resume the name of her first husband." He quoted the case of Cowley v. Cowley, decided in the House of Lords in 1901: "Lady Violet Neville, after becoming Countess Cowley, obtained a divorce from her husband on the ground of his misconduct. She then married a commoner, a Mr. Biddulph, but nevertheless continued to call herself Countess Cowley. The Earl brought proceedings to restrain her from using the name, but the House of Lords, on appeal, refused to grant an injunction. Lord Macnaughton, in giving judgment, said: 'Everybody knows that it is a very common practice for peeresses (not being peeresses in their own right) after marrying Commoners to retain the title lost by such marriage. It is not a matter of right. It is merely a matter of courtesy, and allowed by the usages of society.'"

And all this time (it was nearly October) never a word came from Loring. Sophy corresponded with his mother, who knew nothing of the strained relations between them, and through her she learned that Morris had gone to Canada with some friends. A sporting expedition. Mrs. Loring mentioned it casually, of course, supposing that Sophy knew already. Mrs. Horton and Belinda were still at Nahant. Morry had been so thoughtful! He had come down to say good-by to her before starting for Canada—but had not stopped the night. Didn't Sophy think he looked rather thin? She herself was much better, et cetera, et cetera.

When Sophy read this letter, she wondered what had passed between Morris and Belinda during that flying visit to Nahant. He was evidently "disciplining" her (Sophy). Silence and absence were to bring her to a right frame of mind.

She began to get desperately restless and impatient. She felt that she must come to a definite understanding with him. She would have written, but she did not wish such a letter to follow him from place to place at the risk of getting lost.

Judge Macon had heard from his "friend in the West." If Mrs. Loring wished to institute divorce proceedings, the sooner she came to Ontowega herself the better. So wrote the Western lawyer. He wished to interview Mrs. Loring personally.

Yet Sophy felt that it would be impossible for her to go until she had come to a definite understanding with Morris.

All her philosophy, drawn sound and sweet from the sodden husk of experience, could not keep her from fretting inwardly. Her first irrepressible joy over the mere idea of freedom died flatly down. She was unhappy—even very unhappy. Memories stung her day and night. Vain regret.... It was like the feeling of homesickness for a home that has been burned down. As she walked and rode, as she sat in her study, with its perfume of rose-geraniums and cedar wood, her collie at her feet—these memories came teasing, teasing, like wan-eyed, persistent beggars when one's purse is empty. Sophy's heart was empty of the coin of love—but it brimmed with pity—the heavy, leaden currency of pity.

The only real pleasure that she had in these days was from Amaldi's letters. The first one had been sent from the steamer in which he had sailed for Italy a few days after she had left Newport. It was rather short, rather shy. "You must forbear with my English, please," he had said. "I find it much more hard to write than in speaking." But the little quaintnesses of construction only made his letter seem more charming to her. He had not alluded to their last meeting except indirectly. He wrote: "There is much mist this morning. I see the last of America, dim as dreams through this mist. But above rises the great goddess, she that is to America what Pallas was to Athens. She lifts high her torch—and it seems I see it shine upon your face. I remember her name and the meaning of this light that she is holding so high above the mist. For you I repeat her name many times in my heart. It is with a feeling of religion that I say this name over and over—linking it to yours. And I feel that for you, high above all mist, is that pure flame shining."

Sophy loved this letter, for among other things, it reassured her about their friendship. It made her feel in many ways that he was too fine not to have realized that there could be no more love in her life and too strong to sacrifice their beautiful friendship to a vain desire something that could never be. She spent a solacing hour in writing him a letter such as she felt he would love to receive—all about her home, herself, her daily doings, her dog, her horse ... some of her inmost thoughts that she felt he would understand and share with her.

The end of September had been chilly, but October came in with soft, spring-like showers again, very mild—real May weather—rather like Indian Spring than Indian Summer. On the second day the showers held about noon. Harold Grey set off with the whole "bunch" of boys for a long-promised jaunt. They were to ride up to the top of Laurel Mountain and spend the night there in an old rubble hut, sleeping on pine boughs. There was to be a camp-fire, they were to cook their own meals. Off they went, all on horseback, laughing and singing:

"Ole ark a-movin', movin', chillun!"

Sophy watched Bobby as he rode off on the old Shelty, his face a-shine, and again she felt that it was all worth while if Bobby were so blissfully content. He had never worn that shining face in Newport or New York. That afternoon she went out to look for mushrooms. This was surely ideal mushroom weather. She put on an old corduroy skirt, and stout boots, and borrowed a little basket from Mammy Nan.

A great west wind had suddenly sprung up. Wild tatters of cloud were blown across the sky. Now they veiled, now they revealed the sun. The box hedges glittered darkly, waving their sombre plumes to and fro, up and down. The grass glinted like yellow crystal as the sun caught it. Leaves scurried in flocks through the air. The wet clay was just the colour of a sweating sorrel horse.

Sophy went down to the pasture behind the stable. There were cattle grazing there—a fine black Angus bull, and his harem of forty young heifers. But she was not afraid of them—they were all very gentle, the black Pasha as well as his wives.

The field hollowed in the middle, and a little dark-red path coiled through the soaked green. Sophy dipped under the pasture-bars, and went slowly forward, looking to right and left, for the cool, fleshlike glisten of fungi.

The bull was grazing on a hill at the far end of the field. His splendid, black silhouette stood out against the grey wrack of cloud. Half of his harem grazed near. The other half had discreetly withdrawn to that part of the field where Sophy was now walking. One lovely little heifer, black and soft of pelt as a black Angora cat, regarded her musingly out of lustrous, still eyes that were heavy as with sorrow. Sophy went up to her ... put out her hand, saying: "Coo ... co-o-o...."

The heifer let her stroke her forehead, her ears—let the slim, quick hand run along her sides, play with her glossy pelt. "You sweetheart!..." said Sophy.

She was more like a calm, friendly dog than a cow. Sophy finally gave her a kiss between her tranquil, melancholy eyes, and continued on her quest for mushrooms.

The wind was higher than ever now. It blew in squally gusts. Clouds were sagging dark in the southwest. The sun winked in and out like the light of a great pharos.

Sophy found her first mushroom—small, but a beauty. It nestled low in the grass on its plump, naked leg. Its round, white top was faintly browned like a well-cooked meringue. Then she found another, enormous—a real prize, it seemed. But something about it was too perfect—too white. She nipped it out of its green bed, and looked at the gills. They were snowy white. Its slender leg was cased in a fine, white-silk stocking that was "coming down."

"Oh," said Sophy, looking queerly at the too-lovely creature, "how very like you are to some other mistakes of mine!... And yet ... if I ate you ... you would cure them all," she ended quizzically.

She threw the false mushroom away. It lay, pale and corpse-like, in the wet grass. It was so like damp, dead flesh that Sophy shivered.

Now the wind began really to tussle with her. It blew in wild, whoorooshing blasts. The thickets seethed. The old orchard on the hill above made a harsh rattling with its gnarled boughs. She could see the tree-tops on the lawn, bowing, twisting, lashing wildly, as though trying to wrench their roots free from the grip of earth, as though possessed to follow their flying leaves into the sky. Now came a spat of rain. She ducked her head and began to run.

The bull was proceeding with majestic leisureliness towards his shed. He booed from bass to treble, several times. "My sultanas," said this booing, "I advise you to seek, with me, the shelter of my palace."

All the heifers began moving after him towards the shed. Now the rain came in earnest—big, cold drops. Sophy ran faster and faster. The mushrooms in her basket bounced plumply. She was afraid they would be smashed. She took off her brown velvet cap and pressed it over them as she ran. The rain rather blinded her. She ran full-tilt into some one who emerged suddenly from behind a thicket near the pasture-bars.

"By Jove!... You're soaked!..." said a voice she knew. It was Loring.