ion; it was a terrible risk, an indiscretion fatal
if discovered.

For the motives which determined her action, it is necessary, I believe,
to look deeper, less to her reasoning, more to her character, and to the
feeling under whose sway she was. Her obstinate courage refused to show
the white feather to her distrust of Powers; that very distrust itself
appealed to her love of a risk. She would do the thing because it was
dangerous--because, if it came off well, the peril of it would have made
it so much sweeter to her taste, would have given the flavor of mystery
she loved, and been such a defiance of fate as was an attraction to her
spirit. "Once more!" always appealed to Jenny; to try once more--once
again beyond the point of safety. "Once more!" has appealed to--and has
ruined--many lovers. Is not the scene, too, something? To lovers a
meeting in the old place is doubly a meeting, and becomes a memory of
double strength. The shrine has its sacredness as well as the deity; the
spirit of the encounter is half lost in alien surroundings. "Once
more--in the old place!" So she felt on the evening when she was to meet
for the last time the man whom she dared not keep with her, but whose
going wrung her heart. Farewell it was--it should be full farewell!

Lacey and I ran till we nearly reached the gates of the park; then we
walked quickly, pausing now and again to listen for carriage wheels
behind us. We heard none. Fillingford was lingering at Breysgate--Chat
must be playing her game well! Jenny was in bed and perhaps would get
up--or Jenny was out and would soon be back; by some story or other Chat
was fighting to keep him where he was. The thought gave hope, and I
pushed on. Lacey kept pace with me; he never spoke till we came opposite
to Ivydene, and saw the shrubberies of Hatcham Ford on our right.

"That's as far as I go," said Lacey, "for the present. It's no business
of mine unless my father comes--and wants me."

I left him standing in the road, just opposite the gate of Hatcham Ford,
which was open. I went on to Ivydene and knocked. I waited, but nobody
came. I knocked again impatiently. There was a clatter of hob-nailed
shoes along the stone passage inside. The door was opened by the boy in
the red cap.

"Ah, Alban, how are you? Is your father in?"

"No, sir--mother's out, too, sir. I'm taking care of the house." The boy
looked pleased and proud--almost as if he knew, though of course he did
not, the impor