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Not to be forced to act a part all day for fear some one might guess her secret! It would hurt her to say good-by to Biddy and Jo, but one must make up one’s mind to face these smaller sorrows. After all, if one could face the biggest blow of all—the desolation...

No, she would not think of that! She had indulged in some foolish romantic day-dream. It was over. Some day she would forget it. Yet as she said that, she knew that it wasn’t true. The wound would heal in time, no doubt—but deep wounds leave scars for ever. Ann turned on her bed in the darkness. She wouldn’t let herself think of what might have been—she wouldn’t! She got up and lighted her lamp—looked for a book. She’d been reading something—a book of Arnold Bennett’s—where was it? She remembered now, she’d left it up in the school-room. Throwing on a wrapper, Ann stepped out through the open window across the veranda into the night. Why hadn’t she thought before of leaving her room for the warm star lit darkness of the garden? One could at least breathe here in the open. That terrible constriction of the throat, the sense of physical oppression, seemed to be eased a little by the night wind stirring the trees under the wide sky. And the restful, silent hills brought some vague sense of distant peace.

On the grass borders passing round the house, Ann’s steps were noiseless. She reached the eastern side, and mounted the path towards the school-room. The door was open. She entered and fumbled at the catch of the torch she had brought with her. She must be quiet, for Gerald Waring slept in the room adjoining. Then suddenly she heard his voice.

“Don’t be a fool, Vera. You’ve said yourself that