her of them should
make an effort to bring things in the right way for their happiness. The
woman was sure of the woman's feeling. It is from men, not women, that
women hide their love. By side-glances and unthinking moments women note
and learn. The man knew already, from his own lips, of the man's
passion. But his lips were sealed by his loyalty; and he said earnestly:

'My dear, we must not interfere. Not now, at any rate; we might cause
them great trouble. I am as sure as you are that they really love each
other. But they must win happiness by themselves and through themselves
alone. Otherwise it would never be to them what it ought to be; what it
might be; what it will be!'

So these friends were silent, and the little tragedy developed. Harold's
patience began to give way under the constant strain of self-suppression.
Stephen tried to hide her love and fear, under the mask of a gracious
calm. This the other took for indifference.

At last there came an hour which was full of new, hopeless agony to
Stephen. She heard Harold, in a fragment of conversation, speak to Mr.
Stonehouse of the need of returning to Alaska. That sounded like a word
of doom. In her inmost heart she knew that Harold loved her; and had she
been free she would have herself spoken the words which would have drawn
the full truth to them both. But how could she do so, having the
remembrance of that other episode; when, without the reality of love, she
had declared herself? . . . Oh! the shame of it . . . The folly! . . .
And Harold knew it all! How could he ever believe that it was real this
time! . . .

By the exercise of that self-restraint which long suffering had taught
her, Stephen so managed to control herself that none of her guests
realised what a blow she had received from a casual word. She bore
herself gallantly till the last moment. After the old fashion of her
youth, she had from the Castle steps seen their departure. Then she took
her way to her own room, and locked herself in. She did not often, in
these days, give way to tears; when she did cry it was as a luxury, and
not from poignant cause. Her deep emotion was dry-eyed as of old. Now,
she did not cry, she sat still, her hands clasped below her knees, with
set white face gazing out on the far-off sea. For hours she sat there
lonely; staring fixedly all the time, though her thoughts were whirling
wildly. At first she had some vague purpose, which she hope