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now that the barrier of death stood definitely between herself and James Harley, the last faint hope of happiness with him had died—the hope of which she had not been conscious until she read the news. She had thought herself hopeless when Harley had left her; now she felt herself to be hopeless indeed.

This morning nothing interested her, neither the committee nor Mrs. Langham, the earthquake nor the work she was engaged upon. Her brain seemed dead. She seemed to have lost all capacity for further suffering or emotion.

Mrs. Langham revived her.

The large lady, pleasantly surprised to find that Patricia had abdicated the leadership of her own accord, smiled genially upon her old friends and pointedly ignored the girl, who was packing foodstuffs into a large case in a corner of the room.

“Now, let me see,” she began happily, divesting herself of her gloves and handbag. “Where shall we start this morning? Ah, yes. We had better undo all these parcels and classify the contents. Have you the scissors, Percival?”

For some time Mrs. Langham and her old friends fussily undid parcels and classified their contents, discussing meanwhile the aches and pains resulting from their labours of yesterday, and expressing the opinion that No. 2 Committee was an example to every other committee in the country.

Patricia worked in silence and alone. The old friends avoided her, and Mrs. Langham continued to ignore her.

At last came the lead for which Mrs. Langham had waited. One of the old friends mentioned the Harleys.

“Such a nice little thing, she was,” said the old friend, referring to Grace. “So quiet and unassuming.”

“Clever, too,” said another old friend. “I have heard that she furnished the plots for her husband’s stories.”