th a spasm of pain. But she had no time to spare
for any indulgence of her feelings. Her few minutes' talk with Captain
Willoughby had been a holiday, but the holiday was over. She must take
up again the responsibilities with which those five years had charged
her, and at once. If she could not accomplish that hard task of
forgetting--and she now knew very well that she never would accomplish
it--she must do the next best thing, and give no sign that she had not
forgotten. Durrance must continue to believe that she brought more than
friendship into the marriage account.

He stood at the very entrance to the enclosure; he advanced into it. He
was so quick to guess, it was not wise that he should meet Captain
Willoughby or even know of his coming. Ethne looked about her for an
escape, knowing very well that she would look in vain. The creek was in
front of them, and three walls of high thick hedge girt them in behind
and at the sides. There was but one entrance to this enclosure, and
Durrance himself barred the path to it.

"Keep still," she said in a whisper. "You know him?"

"Of course. We were together for three years at Suakin. I heard that he
had gone blind. I am glad to know that it is not true." This he said,
noticing the freedom of Durrance's gait.

"Speak lower," returned Ethne. "It is true. He _is_ blind."

"One would never have thought it. Consolations seem so futile. What can
I say to him?"

"Say nothing!"

Durrance was still standing just within the enclosure, and, as it
seemed, looking straight towards the two people seated on the bench.

"Ethne," he said, rather than called; and the quiet unquestioning voice
made the illusion that he saw extraordinarily complete.

"It's impossible that he is blind," said Willoughby. "He sees us."

"He sees nothing."

Again Durrance called "Ethne," but now in a louder voice, and a voice of
doubt.

"Do you hear? He is not sure," whispered Ethne. "Keep very still."

"Why?"

"He must not know you are here," and lest Willoughby should move, she
caught his arm tight in her hand. Willoughby did not pursue his
inquiries. Ethne's manner constrained him to silence. She sat very
still, still as she wished him to sit, and in a queer huddled attitude;
she was even holding her breath; she was staring at Durrance with a
great fear in her eyes; her face was strained forward, and not a muscle
of it moved, so that Willoughby, as he looked at her, was conscious of a
certain