to Martin of the broken heart, and the
broken, ended life. In the hour of his agony he had turned to her, and
she would never fail him. It would not be easy; Martin had not always
been easy to understand even in the good old times; now he would be sad,
irritable, unresponsive; she would have to expend herself, and to expect
but little appreciation in return. She told herself warmly that she
wanted no thanks, all she wanted was to help. Incidentally, also, she
herself could never marry, but as a mere school-girl, free as yet from
any consciousness of sex, she accepted that privation with youthful
calm. She would have her own house, her own place in the world; a
life-work worth doing, and which no one but herself could undertake.
She entered upon it with a serene content.

Eight years ago, and here they were still, sitting at either end of the
breakfast table, with Juliet's face looking down on them from the walls;
the same people, living the same lives, looking practically the same,
for life goes slowly in little English towns, thinking the same
thoughts. Well! practically the same--poor Martin's outlook, of course,
was unchanged, Katrine decided, but for herself, when one was
twenty-six... She heaved a sigh, straightened herself resolutely, and
glanced at the letters by her plate.

They were three in number; a coroneted missive in white and gold, a pale
violet envelope edged with a line of a darker shade, and bearing a
dashing monogram upon the reverse side, and lastly, a bulky epistle with
an Indian stamp.

"Nice mail!" exclaimed Katrine appreciatively, as she glanced over her
budget. "Some one told me yesterday that the invitations for the
Barfield Garden Party were out, and I felt a qualm in case ours had been
overlooked. Here it is, however, safe and sound. Tuesday, July 9.
Over six weeks! What a fearsomely long invitation! I do love that
afternoon at Barfield; it is a very zoological garden of lions. If they
could only be labelled, how interesting it would be! You will come with
me to Barfield, Martin?"

"Oh, I suppose so. Possibly. If nothing happens." Martin Beverley's
voice hardly echoed his sister's gratification. He spoke with the air
of a man laboriously anxious to be agreeable, but his lifted eyes held
no sparkle of light. Then they fell upon the violet envelope, and he
spoke again:--

"From Grizel, is it not? What has she to say?"

Katrine laughed with light amusement.

"The usu