It was a bright sunny morning, and, though the third and last day of the fair, people went to their business as usual. The Dutch are early risers, and set about their day's work in good time; but even had they been the reverse, the latest of them would have been about before Julia and Rawson-Clew reached the outskirts of the town. They had stopped for breakfast at the first village they came to after leaving the Dunes, this on the principle of being hung for a sheep rather than a lamb. It did not seem to matter being a little later considering the necessarily unreasonable hour of their return; also Julia, with the instinct of her family for detail; preferred to set herself to rights so as to present the best appearance possible when she arrived at the Van Heigens'. It was not natural, of course, that a person should appear too neat and orderly after a night of adventure, lost on the Dunes; but the reverse was not becoming. Julia hit the medium between the two with a nicety which might have cost one not a Polkington some thought, but to one of them was merely the natural thing.

Together Julia and Rawson-Clew walked to the outskirts of the town. Their ways parted there—his to the left, hers to the right; it was the port of which she had thought yesterday, the place of final separation. He had proposed to go with her to the Van Heigens, so as to bear testimony to what had befallen, and to assure them that she was quite safe; but she would not have this, she felt she could manage very much better without him, his presence would only require a good deal of extra explanation, none too easy to give. He guessed the reason of her refusal and saw the wisdom of it, although he felt annoyed that she had, as he now perceived she must, concealed their earlier acquaintance. It might have been advisable, seeing Dutch notions of propriety; but it placed the matter in a rather invidious light, and also began to bring home to him the fact, which grew very much more evident before the day was over, that he had distinguished himself by an act of really remarkable folly.

They had almost reached the town, in fact had passed some small houses, the dwelling-places of carriage proprietors and washerwomen, when a girl stepped out of a doorway some distance ahead of them. She glanced in their direction, then stared.

"There's Denah," Julia said; she did not speak with consternation though Denah was about the last person she wanted to see just then. Consternation is a waste of time and energy when you are found out, a bold face and immediate actions are usually best. Julia waved her hand in cheerful greeting to the Dutch girl.

But Denah did not return the greeting; instead, after her stare of astonished recognition, she turned and set off up the road towards where it joined a more important street with trams, which ran into the town.

"Hulloah?" Julia said softly, and quick as thought she turned too, and the hand that had waved to Denah was signaling to a carriage which at that moment drove out of a stable-yard near. A light had come into her eyes, a dancing light like the gleam on a sword-blade. There was a little wee smile about her lips, too, which somehow brought to Rawson-Clew's mind a man he once knew who had sung softly to himself all the time he prepared for the brigands who were known to be about to rush his camp.

"She'll take a tram," Julia said gaily, looking towards the speeding figure; "she is too careful to waste her money even to spite any one of whom she is jealous."

The cab drew up, and Julia, not failing to see Denah fulfil her words at the junction of the street, got in. Rawson-Clew followed her. She would have prevented him.

"Don't come," she said; "I don't want you. Good-bye."

But he insisted. "I certainly am coming," he said, and ordered the man to drive on into the town, telling Julia to give the address.

She did so, weighing in her mind the while the chances of Rawson-Clew's knowledge of Dutch being equal to following all that was said when three people spoke at once, all of them in a great state of excitement. She thought it was possible he would not master every detail, but at the same time she did not wish him to try; it would be insupportable to have him dragged into this, and in return for his kindness to her have a dozen vulgar and ridiculous things said and insinuated.

"Look here," she said, "there is not any need for you to come, I can do better without you, I can indeed. I have got to explain things, of course, but, as I told you before, I have had some practice at dodging and explaining. I shall reach the Van Heigens' before Denah, so I shall get the first hearing, that's all I want, I can explain beautifully."

"You cannot explain me away," Rawson-Clew answered. "I know I was not to have figured in the original account, that is obvious, but it is equally obvious that I must figure in this one. I prefer to give it myself."

"Oh, but that won't do at all!" Julia said. "Please leave it to me, it would be nothing to me, I am used to tight places, and it would be an insufferable annoyance to you. I really don't want you to suffer for your kindness to me—you have no idea what absurd and ridiculous things they will say."

Rawson-Clew had been polishing his eyeglass, he put it back in his eye before he spoke. "My dear child," he said; "in spite of the sheltered life with which you credit me, I assure you I have a very clear idea of the kind of things they will say."

"Then for goodness sake, leave it to me," Julia said, losing her temper; "I can do it a great deal better than you can; I'm not honest, and you are, and that's a handicap."

"In these cases," Rawson-Clew answered imperturbably, "honesty requires the consideration of the lady first and truth afterwards—a long way after. Let me know what you want told and I will tell it—with evidence—I suppose you are equal to evidence?"

Julia laughed, but without much mirth. "I do wish you would not come," she said.

But he did, and they drove together through the town, past the bulb gardens, to the wooden house with the dark-tiled roof. There Rawson-Clew paid the coachman and dismissed the carriage while Julia rang the bell.

In time the servant came to the door. "Ach!" she cried at the sight of Julia, and, "G-r-r-r!" and other exclamations, uttered very gutturally and with upraised hands. She was a country girl from some remote district, and she spoke a very unintelligible patois; at least Rawson-Clew found it so, his companion, apparently, was used to it.

Julia listened to the exclamations, and apparently to congratulations on her safe return, said in a friendly manner that she had a terrible adventure, and then asked where Mevrouw was.

Mevrouw was out, and Mijnheer was out too; a torrent more information followed, but Julia did not pay much attention to it, she turned to Rawson-Clew with the smile on her lips with which she laughed at herself.

"Denah saved her money and won her move," she said; "it serves me right. I under-rated her—this is what always comes of under-rating the enemy."

"Do you mean she knew where these people are?" Rawson-Clew asked.

"That is about it, she knew and I did not."

"What are you going to do?"

"Wait till they come back, there is nothing else."

He moved as if he thought to follow her into the house, but she did not approve of that. "You cannot wait with me," she said; "it is one thing to bring me home, quite another to wait with me here."

He, however, thought differently, but he did not argue the point. "Thank you," he said, "I prefer to wait; I consider I am conducting this now, not you."

He was a little annoyed by her ridiculous persistence, but she looked at him with the dancing lights coming back in her eyes. "Oh, well, if you prefer to wait," she said, "but I'm afraid you must do it alone." And before he realised what she was doing, she had run off, down the path, across an empty flower-bed and among some brushes behind.

In considerable anger he turned to follow her, but he pulled himself up; there was very little use in that and no need for it either; he was sure she was far too skilful a tactician to imperil an affair by unwise flight; this was a blind merely—unless, of course, she thought of setting out to find these Dutch people, wherever they might be. He asked the staring servant where her master and mistress were; it took time for him to make out her answers, but at last he did. Mijnheer was at a place (or house) with a name he had never before heard, and would have been puzzled to say now from this one hearing. It was a distant bulb farm, and Mijnheer had gone there on business; the fact that Julia had not returned home naturally did not keep the good man from his work. These details Rawson-Clew did not know; the name only was given to him, and that conveyed nothing. Joost, he was told, was somewhere in the bulb gardens, where, seemed unknown; Mevrouw was at the house of the notary. Who the notary was, and where he lived, and why she had gone there were alike as obscure to this inquirer as was Julia's probable destination. He felt that she might have set out to find any one of these three people, or she might be lying in wait, like a foolish child, till he had gone. He went down the drive; outside the gate he saw some idlers who had been there when he drove in a little while back; he asked them if any one answering to the girl's description had come out. They told him "ja," and they also told him which direction she had taken; it was the way that led to the market, not the residential part of the town.

He was no better off for this information; there seemed nothing to be done. It would have been little short of absurd, if, indeed, it had not been seriously compromising to Julia, for him to present himself at the house of the notary—when he could find it—and tell Vrouw Van Heigen he had brought Julia home and she was afraid to appear with him. Either he and she must act together and appear together, or else he must, as she desired and now made necessary, keep out of it altogether. Considerably annoyed with the girl, but at the same time uneasy about her, he went to his hotel.

As the morning wore on, the annoyance lessened and the uneasiness grew. After all he was not sure that Julia had thrown away much by refusing to have the support of his company; had they two been there waiting for the Van Heigens' return, or had they set out together to find them, he was not sure his presence would have been any help in the face of the jealous Dutch girl's accusations. A jealous woman, even an ordinarily foolish one, is a very dangerous thing when she is attacking a fancied rival with a chance of encompassing her overthrow. Denah would have got her tale told, her case proven, indignation aroused and sympathy with her before the Van Heigens even saw Julia. He wondered what she would do alone and wished he knew how she fared; he thought over the explanations possible and the various ways out that might suggest themselves to a fertile brain. They were not many, and they were not good; the simple truth would probably be best, and that would be so exceedingly compromising under the circumstances that the Van Heigens were hardly likely to find it palatable. Indeed, he began to see that, even if they two could have presented themselves, as they had first intended, to the anxious family before Denah arrived, it was very doubtful if the matter could have been satisfactorily cleared up to a suspicious and prudish Dutch mind. The girl was only a companion, a person of no importance, easy to replace; and, no matter how the fact might be explained, it still remained that she had been out all night with an unknown man; one, who, if he were known, would show to be of a position to make the proceeding more compromising still.

At this point Rawson-Clew got up and walked to the window. It was then that it struck him that he had, in these his mature years, committed an act of stupendous folly, the like of which his youth had never known.

But the girl, what would become of the girl? In England, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, she would have been dismissed; in Holland that one last hope did not exist. She would be dismissed with her character considerably damaged and her chance of getting another situation entirely gone. What would she do? She had told him yesterday she could not leave, but was obliged to stay on at the Van Heigens'; although she had failed in the first object of her coming, and so had no motive for remaining, she had nowhere else to go. Perhaps she had quarrelled with her relatives; perhaps they could not afford to keep her—they were poor enough he knew. She had once said her eldest sister had lately married the nephew of a bishop; he remembered that, and he also remembered that, after his unfortunate visit to Captain Polkington, he had heard they were people with some good connections. But that did not mean that they could afford to help this girl, or would be delighted to receive her home under the present conditions. Rather it indicated that their position was too precarious for them to be able to do it. They would be bitterly hard on her—these aspiring people of gentle birth and doubtful shifts, clinging to society by the skin of their teeth, were the hardest of all. The girl could not go back to them; she could not get anything to do in Holland, or elsewhere—in Heaven's name what could she do?

He asked himself the question with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the street. But the answer did not seem forthcoming.

There was no good blinking the matter; the fact was obvious; the girl was hopelessly and utterly compromised; and he, aided certainly by untoward circumstances—for the sardonic interference of which, in such circumstances, a man of sense usually allows—he had done it. They had had their "holiday," without taking thought for the morrow, in the way approved by boys and dogs and creatures without experience. And here was to-morrow, knocking at the door and demanding the price—as experience showed that it usually did. The question was, who was going to pay, he or she? She had taken it upon herself as a matter of course; it seemed natural to her that the burden should be the woman's, but it did not seem so to him; among his people it was the man who was expected, and who himself expected, to pay. When he had grasped the situation fully and saw how she must inevitably stand he also saw at the same time and equally plainly, that he must marry her; nothing else was possible.

He walked away from the window and began to search for writing materials. He could not go and see her, it was out of the question under the circumstances; he would have to write, and, on the whole, perhaps, it was easier that way. He sat down to the table, but he did not at once begin, for between him and the paper there rose up the vision of a stately old Norfolk house. It was his; he had not lived there for years, but he supposed he would some day; all his people had; he remembered his grandfather there and his grandmother—a tall, stately woman, a woman of parts. He thought of her, and his mother, a graceful, gracious woman—he thought of her standing in the drawing-room between the long windows, receiving company. And then he thought of Julia.

He turned away from the vision abruptly, and dated his letter. But soon he had lain down his pen again. He was conservative, and Julia was not of the breed of the women he had recalled; she had no kinship with them or their modern prototypes, one of whom he vaguely supposed he should marry some day—when he went to live in the old Norfolk house. Hers was not a stately or a gracious or an all pervading feminine presence; she demanded no court, no care, no carpet for her way; she could come and go unnoticed and unattended; you could overlook her—though she never overlooked you or anything else. She had her points certainly, she was loyal to the core—she would be loyal to him, he was sure, in this scrape, with a silly wrong-headed loyalty, more like a man's to a woman than a woman's to a man. She was loyal to her none too reputable family—that family was a bitter thing to his pride of race. She was courageous, too, cheerfully enduring, laughing in the face of disaster, patient when action was impossible and when it was possible—he found himself smiling when he recalled her—surely there was never one more gay, more ready, more steady, more quietly alert than she when there was a struggle with men or matters in the wind. She had brains of a sort, there was no doubt of that; it was possible to imagine one would not grow tired of her undiluted company as one would of the other sort of woman. Only of course a man did not have the undiluted company of his wife—perhaps if he were a small shop-keeper or an itinerant organ-grinder—if night and day they lived together and worked together and looked out on the world together—if it was the simple life of which she dreamed—

Rawson-Clew picked up his pen and began to write; it was not a case of whether he would or would not, liked or disliked; he had simply to make a girl he had compromised the only restitution in his power.

In the meantime Julia had set out for the market-place as the idlers had said. But her business there did not take long and she was home again, as she intended, before Mevrouw got back from the Snieders. But she had not been in much more than five minutes before the old lady, supported by Vrouw Snieder and Denah, arrived. Mijnheer came home not long after, and, hearing news of the return of the truant, went to the house to join the others.

Julia waited to receive the attack in the dim sitting-room. She knew as well as Rawson-Clew, or better, that she had not a ghost of a chance of clearing herself; dismissal was inevitable; that was why she went to the market-place. She had not largely assisted her family in living by their wits without having those faculties in exceeding good working order; she had already seen and seized the only thing open to her when the end should come. But the fact that she knew how it would end did not prevent her from giving battle; the knowledge only made her change her tactics, and, as there was no use in defending her position (and companion) she was able to concentrate her forces in harassing the enemy.

In these circumstances it is not wonderful that Denah did not derive the satisfaction she expected from the affair. Julia, unrepentant and reckless because of her known fate, unhampered by Rawson-Clew's presence, and flatly declining to give any particulars about him, would have been an awkward antagonist for one cleverer than the Dutch girl. Poor Denah lost her temper, and lost her head, and lost control of her tongue and her tears. Julia did not lose anything, but again and again winged shafts that went unerringly home. She was genuinely sorry to have upset and disappointed Mevrouw, but for Denah she did not care in the least, and the old lady soon contrived to soften some of the regret, for she was far too angry and shocked at the impropriety to have any gentler feelings of sorrow or to believe what she was told. Vrouw Snieder acted principally as chorus of horror; she was shocked and angry too, on Mevrouw's account and on her own and her daughter's; she seemed to think they had all been outraged together.

When Mijnheer came in they were all talking at once and Denah was weeping copiously. Julia's part in the conversation was small; she just shot a word in here and there, but apparently never without effect, for her utterances, like drops of water on hot metal, were always followed by fresh bursts of excitement. The good man tried in vain to make out what was the matter and what had happened. At last, after his fifth effort elsewhere, he turned to Julia, and she told him briefly. She told the truth, only suppressing Rawson-Clew's name and all details concerning him, saying merely that he was a man she had met before she left England. The two elder sisters gradually became silent to listen; Denah listened too, only sniffing occasionally.

"You pretended you did not know him the day we went the excursion," she said vindictively; "I saw you; I knew you were not to be trusted then. Why did you pretend, and how do you know him? He is a man of family; he has the air of it, very distinguished, and you are nothing at all, nobody—"

"Hush!" said Mijnheer; "that is not the point; it is of no importance who the man may be, he is a man, that is enough; and she was out with him—alone—a whole day and night; it is certainly very bad indeed; shocking, if it is true—is it true?"

He looked at Julia, and she answered, "Yes."

She was sorry, very sorry, but more on his account than her own; she could see how heinous he thought it, how she had fallen in his esteem, and she was sorry for it. But at the same time she knew her conduct really had been no more than indiscreet; and she did not repent; she regretted nothing but being found out, and that not so much as she ought now that the joy of battle was upon her. As for the women, they suspected far worse than Mijnheer believed; but even if they had not, if they had believed no more than the truth, that would have been enough for condemnation; her offence—the real one—was past forgiveness; she must go. She received the sentence meekly; she knew she deserved no less from these kind if narrow-minded people. Denah smiled triumphantly; Julia felt she deserved that too; moreover, Denah's nose was so pink and her face so swelled with tears, that the smile was more amusing than exasperating.

"I am sorry," she said; "I am sorry you should all have to think so ill of me, and that I should deserve it. You have been very kind to me while I have been here, and made my service easy; I am ashamed to have deceived you and behaved in such a way as you must condemn."

Unfortunately Vrouw Snieder snorted here; she did not believe in these protestations and she said so, inducing Vrouw Van Heigen to do the same. Mijnheer looked doubtfully at Julia for a moment, then he came to the conclusion that if she was not too abandoned a person to be really repentant, it would be as well to take advantage of her professed state of mind and drive home some moral lessons. Accordingly he and the two elder ladies drove them home, with the result that Julia's regret dwindled to nothing.

"Mijnheer," she said at last, quietly yet effectually breaking in upon his words; "Mijnheer, you are a very good man, Mevrouw is a virtuous woman, and Vrouw Snieder also, all of you. I have often admired your goodness; when you were least conscious of it it preached to me, making me ashamed of my wickedness. But now that you, in your goodness, have taken to preaching to me yourselves, I am no longer ashamed, for it is clear that your goodness dares to do a thing that no man's wickedness would; it turns the foolish and indiscreet into sinners and sinners into devils; it makes the way of wrong-doing very easy. You are so good," she went on, putting aside an interruption; "perhaps you do not know wickedness when you see it; you cannot distinguish between sin and sin; you are like those who would hang a man for stealing bread as soon as for killing a child. What! Are you indignant, Mevrouw, at such a charge? Are you not turning out, with no character and no chance—a good enough imitation of hanging—a girl who has been no more than foolish, just the same as if she had committed the greatest sin?"

Vrouw Heigen broke in angrily, and Vrouw Snieder and Denah, inexpressibly shocked; Mijnheer was also shocked, but he, and they too, were vaguely uneasy under the reproach. Julia was satisfied; more especially as her experience of them led her to expect they would, though never persuaded they had made a mistake, yet feel more uneasy by and by.

She rose from her chair. "Yes," she said, "it is a shame to speak of such things, as you observe; do not let us speak of them any more. Perhaps Mijnheer you would like to pay me, then I can go."

Mijnheer agreed rather hastily; then, realising the suddenness of the step, he paused with his purse in his hand. "But can you go now?" he asked. "Nothing is arranged; you had better wait a day or two."

"No," Julia answered, "I think not; it would be well to get the thing over and done with; you would rather and so would I."

No one contradicting this, Mijnheer counted the money and gave it to Julia.

"Thank you," she said; "now I will set the table for coffee drinking. You will stay, of course, Mevrouw," she went on, turning to Vrouw Snieder—"and Miss Denah, that will be two extra—Mijnheer Joost will be in, Denah; you can tell him about it."

Denah flushed indignantly, and Vrouw Snieder could only say "You—You—"

"Oh, I will not sit down with you, of course," Julia answered sweetly; "I will take my coffee in the little room; is it not so, Mevrouw?"

Vrouw Van Heigen nodded; she did not know what else to do, and Julia went away, leaving them as awkward and at a loss for words as if they were the delinquents, not she. Denah felt this and resented it; the elders felt it too, and for a moment or two looked at one another ill at ease. However, in a little they recovered and began to talk over Julia and her wrong doings till they felt quite comfortable again. Denah did not join very much in the discussion; after she had once again, by request, repeated what she had seen and what deduced therefrom, she was left rather to herself. She went to the window and sat there looking out for Joost; he was certain to come in soon, and she found consolation in the thought. Joost, the model of modesty and decorous serious propriety, would know the English girl in her true colours now, and be justly disgusted and shocked to think that he had ever ridden beside her on a merry-go-round.

Just then Julia passed carrying a tray of cups. "Denah," she said, pitching her voice soft and low in the tone the Dutch girl hated most, "I will give you a piece of advice; take care how you tell Joost about my wickedness; you want to be ever so clever to abuse another girl to a man; it is one of the most difficult things in the world—and you are not very clever, you know, not even clever enough to take my advice."

Denah was not clever enough to take the advice nor in any humour to do so; she stared angrily at Julia, who unconcernedly put the cups on the table and vanished into the kitchen.

Joost came in for coffee drinking, and the whole party with one accord told him the tale; Julia heard them through the closed door as she sat sipping her coffee in the little room. She did not hear him say anything at all except just at first, "I won't believe it!" in a tone which roused again, and with added strength, the regret she had felt before for repaying belief and kindness by such disillusioning. Afterwards he seemed to say nothing more; presumably they had convinced him with overwhelming evidence. She wondered how he looked; she could picture his serious blue eyes uncomfortable well; poor Joost, who had such high opinions of her, who thought she, seeing the low, chose the high path always in the greatness of her knowledge and strength; who had called her a lantern, sometimes dimmed, but always a beacon! The lantern was obscured just now, very badly obscured. She rose and went up to her room; she would clear the table after Joost had gone back to work.

She did so, coming down when he and Mijnheer were safely in the office. When she had done she went to Mevrouw, who had betaken herself to her room worn out by the morning's excitement.

"Would you prefer that I went at once?" she inquired, "or that I waited till after dinner? I will stay till six if you wish it, or I will go now without waiting to attend to the dinner."

Vrouw Van Heigen preferred the waiting; it would be so very much better for the dinner, and really it hardly seemed as if propriety could suffer much; accordingly she said with what dignity she could that the girl had better stay till the evening.

Julia went down-stairs again and set to work preparing the dinner, and it was perhaps only natural that she took pains to make that dinner a memorably good one. It was while she was busy in the kitchen that a note was brought to her.

"Put it on the table," she said to the servant girl; her hands just then were too floury to take it, but she looked at it as it lay on the table beside her. She did not recognise the writing, though she saw at once that it was not that of a Dutchman. "Who brought it?" she asked, beginning to clean her hands.

The servant could not say, but from her description Julia gathered that it must have been a special messenger of some sort. On hearing this, she did not trouble to clean her hands any more, but opened the letter at once, making floury finger-prints upon it.

"Very sincerely yours,

"H. F. Rawson-Clew."

So Julia read, and sat down suddenly on the flour barrel. She turned to the beginning of the letter and read it through again, and when she looked up her eyes were shining with admiration. "I am glad!" she said aloud, but in English, "I am glad he has done it! It's splendid, splendid! I never thought of it—but then I don't believe I knew what a real gentleman was before!"

The maidservant started at her curiously; she could not understand a word, but she saw that the letter gave pleasure, for which she was glad; she liked Julia, and was very sorry she was going in disgrace; she herself had occasional lapses from rectitude and so consequently had a fellow feeling.

"You have a good letter?" she asked.

"Very good," Julia said; "but we must get on with the cooking; I will answer it by and by."

Julia put it in her pocket after another glance, purring to herself in English, "It is so well done, too," she said; "never a word of to-day, only of yesterday—yesterday!" and she laughed softly.

There is no doubt about it, if Julia had got to receive a death sentence she would have liked it to be well given; it is quite possible, had she lived at the time, she would have been one of those who objected to the indignity of riding in the tumbrils quite as much as to the guillotine at the end of the ride.

She finished the preparations for dinner, got her pots and pans all nicely simmering and her oven at the right heat; then, giving some necessary directions, she left the servant to watch the cooking and went up to her own room. There she at once proceeded to answer the letter—

"Yours very sincerely,

"Julia Polkington."

"I wonder what his name is?" she speculated; "H. F.—H.—Henry, Horace—I shouldn't think he had a name people called him by."

She read her own letter through, and as she was folding it stopped; it occurred to her that he might think courtesy demanded a formal refusal of his proposal. It was, of course, quite unnecessary; the refusal went without saying; she would no more have dreamed of accepting his quixotic offer than he would have dreamed of avoiding the necessity of making it; the one was as much a sine qu non to her as the other was to him. From which it would appear that in some ways at least their notions of honour were not so many miles apart.

She flattened her letter again; perhaps he would think the definite word more polite, so she added a postscript—

After that she fastened the envelope, and a while later went out to post it. As she went up the drive she caught sight of Joost some distance away in the gardens; his face was not towards her, and she congratulated herself that he had not seen her. However, the congratulations were premature; when she came back from the post she found him standing just inside the gate waiting for her, obviously waiting. At least it was obvious to her; she had caught people herself before now, and so recognised that she was caught too plainly to uselessly attempt getting away.

"Do you want to hear what happened yesterday?" she asked, with an effrontery she did not feel. "I expect Denah has told you all, perhaps a little more than all, still, enough of it was true."

"I want to speak to you," he said, and parted the high bushes that bordered the left of the drive.

Julia reluctantly enough, but feeling that she owed him what explanation was possible, went through. Behind the bushes there was a small enclosed space used for growing choice bulbs; it was empty now, the sandy soil quite bare and dry; but it was very retired, being surrounded by an eight foot hedge with only one opening besides the way by which they had come in through the looser-growing bushes. Julia made her way down to the opening; with her practical eye for such things, she recognised that it would be the best way of escape, just as the loose-growing bushes offered the likeliest point of attack. This, of course, did not matter to her, she being in the case of "he who is down," but it might matter a good deal to Joost if his father looked through the bushes, and he would never know how to take care of himself.

"Well?" she said, when she had taken up this discreet position. But as he did not seem ready she went on, "I really don't think there is anything to say; I did wrong yesterday, not quite as much wrong as your mother and Denah think, still wrong—what my own people would have disapproved, at least if it were found out; that's the biggest crime on their list—and what I knew your people would condemn utterly. I am afraid I have no excuse to offer; I knew what I was doing, and I did it with my eyes open. I did not see any harm in it myself but I knew other people would, so I meant to say nothing. I had deceived your parents before, and I meant to keep on doing it. You know I had walked with that man lots of times before yesterday; all the time your mother thought me so good to visit your cousin I really enjoyed doing it because I walked with him."

"Do you love him?" The question was asked low and almost jerkily.

"Love him?" Julia said in surprise; "no, of course not. That is where the difference comes in, I believe; you all seem to think there is nothing but love and love-making and kissing and cuddling. I have just liked talking to him and I suppose he liked talking to me, as you might some friend, or Denah some girl she knew. We never thought about love and all that; we couldn't, you know; he belongs to a different lot from what I do. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand," he answered, and there was a vibrant note in his voice which was new to her. "I understand that it is you who are right and we who are wrong—you who know good and evil and can choose, we who suspect and think and hint, believing ill when there is none. Rather than send you away, we should ask your forgiveness!"

"You should do nothing of the kind," Julia said decidedly, beginning to take alarm. "I may not have been wrong in quite the way your parents think, but I was wrong all the same. I am not good, believe me; I am not as you are. Look at me, I am bad inwardly, and really I am what you would condemn and despise."

She was standing in the afternoon sunlight, dark, slim, alert, intensely alive, full of a twisty varied knowledge, a creature of another world. She felt that he must know and recognise the gulf between if only he would look fairly at her.

He did look fairly, but he recognised only what was in his own mind.

"You are to me a beacon—" he began.

But she, realising at last that Denah's jealousy was not after all without foundations, cut him short.

"I am not a beacon," she said, "before you take me for a guiding light you had better hear something about me. Do you know why I came here? I will tell you—it was to get your blue daffodil!"

He stared at her speechless, and she found it bad to see the surprise and almost uncomprehending pain which came into his face, as into the face of a child unjustly smitten. But she went on resolutely: "I heard of it in England, that it was worth a lot of money—and I wanted money—so I came here; I meant to get a bulb and sell it."

"You meant to?" he said slowly; "but you haven't—you couldn't?"

"I could, six times over if I liked."

"But you have not."

"No. I was a fool, and you were—Oh, I can't explain; you would never understand, and it does not matter. The thing that matters is that I came here to get your blue daffodil."

"You must have needed money very greatly," he said in a puzzled, pitying voice.

"I did, I wanted it desperately, but that does not matter either—I came here to steal; I go away because I am found out to have deceived and to have behaved improperly—I want you to understand that."

"I do not understand," he answered; "I understand nothing but that you are you, and—and I love you."

"You don't!" she cried in sharp protest. "You do not, and you cannot! You think you love what you think I am. But I am not that; it is all quite different; when you, know, when you realise, you will see it."

"I realise now," he answered; "it is still the light, only sometimes dim."

"Dim!" she repeated, "it has gone out!"

"And if it has, what then? If you are all you say you are, and all they say you are, and many worse things besides, what then? It makes no difference."

He spoke with the curious quietness with which he always spoke of what he was quite sure. But she drew back against the hedge, clasping her hands together, her calmness all gone. "Oh, what have I done! What have I done!" she said, overcome with pity and remorse.

He drew a step nearer, misinterpreting the emotion. "I will take care of you," he said. "Will you not let me take care of you?"

She looked up, and though her eyes were full of tears he might have read his answer there, in her recovered calmness, in the very gentleness of her manner. "You cannot," she said sadly; "you couldn't possibly do it. Don't you see that it is impossible? Your parents, the people—"

"That is of no importance," he answered; "my parents would very soon see you in your true light, and for the rest—what does it matter? If you will marry me I—"

"But Joost, I can't! Don't you feel yourself that I can't? We are not only of two nations—that is nothing—but we are almost of two races; we are night and day, oil and water, black and white. It would never do; we should be on the outskirts of each other's lives, you would never know mine, and though I might know yours, I could never really enter in."

"That is nothing," he said, "if you love."

"It is everything," she answered, "if two people do not talk the same language, soul language, I mean."

"They will learn it if they love—but you do not? Is it that, tell me. Ah, yes, you do, a little, little bit! Only a little, so that you hardly know it, but it is enough—if you have the least to give that would do; I would do all the rest; I would love you; I would stand between you and the whole world; in time it would come, in time you would care!"

He had come close to her now; in his eagerness he pressed against her, and, earnestness overcoming diffidence, he almost ventured to take her hand in his. She felt herself inwardly shrink from him with the repulsion that young wild animals feel at times for mere contact. But outwardly she did not betray it; pity for him kept nature under control.

"I cannot," she said very gently; "I can never care."

Then he knew that he had his answer, and there was no appeal; he drew back a pace, and because he never said one word of regret, or reproach, or pleading, her heart smote her.

"I am so sorry!" she said; "I am so sorry. Oh, why is everything so hard! Joost, dear Joost, you must not mind; I am not half good enough for you; I'm not, indeed. Please forget me and—let me go."

And with that she turned and fled into the house.

The maidservant in the kitchen was minding the pots; it still wanted some while to dinner time; she did not expect the English miss would come yet, probably not till it was necessary to dish up. The letter, of course, would have occupied her some time; she had gone out probably to meet the writer—the maid never for a moment doubted him to be the sharer of yesterday's escapade. She heard Julia come in, and judged the meeting to have been a pleasant one, as it had taken time. She had gone up-stairs now, doubtless to pack her things; that would occupy her till almost dinner time.

It did, for she did not begin directly, but sat on her bed instead, doing nothing for a time. But when she did begin, she went to work methodically, folding garments with care and packing them neatly; her heart ached for Joost and for the tangle things were in, but that did not prevent her attending to details when she once set to work. At last she had everything done, even her hat and coat ready to put on when dinner should be over. Then, after a final glance round to see that she had left nothing but the charred fragments of Rawson-Clew's letter, she went down-stairs and got the dinner ready.

She did not take her meal with the family, but again had it in the little room. She brought the dishes to and fro from the kitchen, however, so she passed close to Joost once or twice and saw his grave face and serious blue eyes, as she had seen them every day since her first coming. And when she looked at him, and saw him, his appearance, his small mannerisms, himself in fact, a voice inside her cried down the aching pity, saying, "I could not do it, I could not do it!" But when she was alone in the little room with the door shut between, the pity grew strong again till it almost welled up in tears. Poor Joost! Poor humble, earnest, unselfish Joost! That he should care so, that he should have set his hopes on her, his star—a will-o'-wisp of devious ways! That he should ache for this unworthy cause, and for it shut his eyes to the homely happiness which might have been his!

She rose quickly and went up-stairs to get her hat and jacket. Soon after, the carriage, which she had extravagantly ordered, came, and she called the servant to help her down with her luggage. They got it down the narrow staircase between them and into the hall; Julia glanced back at the white marble kitchen for the last time, and at the dim little sitting-room. Vrouw Van Heigen was there, very much absorbed in crochet; but she had left the door ajar so that she might know when Julia went, and that must have occupied a prominent place in her mind, for she made a mistake at every other stitch.

"Good-bye, Mevrouw," Julia said.

Vrouw Van Heigen grunted; she remembered what was due to herself and propriety.

"And, oh," Julia looked back to say as she remembered it, "don't forget that last lot of peach-brandy we made, it was not properly tied down; you ought to look at the covers some time this week."

"Ah, yes," said the old lady, forgetting propriety, "thank you, thank you, I'll see to it; it will never do to have that go; such fine peaches too."

Then Julia went out and got into the carriage. Mijnheer was in his office; he did not think it quite right to come to see her start either; all the same he came to the door to tell the driver to be careful not to go on the grass. Joost came also and looked over his father's shoulder, and Julia, who had been amused at Vrouw Van Heigen, suddenly forgot this little amusement again.

Joost left his father. "I will tell the man," he said. "I will go after him too and shut the gate; it grows late for it to be open."

The carriage had already started, and he had to hurry after it; even then he did not catch it up till it was past the bend of the drive. Then the man saw him and pulled up, though it is doubtful if he got any order or, indeed, any word. Julia had been looking back, but from the other side; and because she had been looking back and remembering much happiness and simplicity here, she was so grieved for one at least who dwelt here that her eyes were full of tears.

Joost saw them when, on the stopping of the carriage, she turned. "Do not weep," he said; "you must not weep for me."

"I am so sorry," she said; "so dreadfully sorry!"

"But you must not be," he told her; "there is no need."

"There is every need; you have been so kind to me, so good; you have almost taught me—though you don't know it—some goodness too, and in return I have brought you nothing but sadness."

"Ah, yes, sadness," he said; "but gladness too, and the gladness is more than the sadness. Would you not sooner know the fine even though you cannot attain to it, than be content with the little all your life? I would, and it is that which you have given me. It is I who give nothing—"

He hesitated as if for a moment at a loss, and she had no words to fill in the pause.

"Will you take this?" he said, half thrusting something forward. "It is, perhaps, not much to some, but I would like you to have it; it seems fitting; I think I owe it to you, and you to it."

"Oh, yes, yes," she murmured, hardly hearing and not grasping the last words; there was something choking in her throat; it was this strange, humble, disinterested love, so new to her, which brought it there and prevented her from understanding.

She stretched out her hands, and he put something into them; then he stepped back, and the carriage drove on. It was not till the gateway was passed that she realised what it was she held—a small bag made of the greyish-brown paper used on a bulb farm; inside, a single bulb; and outside, written, according to the invariable custom of growers—