s, the little agonized
lines, that had made her heart ache.

"It always does me good," he said, "to see you."

"And to see you--you know what it does to me."

He thought he knew as he caught back his breath and looked at her,
taking in again her fine whiteness, and her tenderness, her purity of
line, and the secret of her eyes whose colour (if they had colour) he
was never sure about; taking in all of her, from her adorable feet to
her hair, vividly dark, that sprang from the white parting like--was it
like waves or wings?

What had once touched and moved him unspeakably in Agatha's face was the
capacity it had, latent in its tragic lines, for expressing terror.
Terror was what he most dreaded for her, what he had most tried to keep
her from, to keep out of her face. And latterly he had not found it; or
rather he had not found the unborn, lurking spirit of it there. It had
gone, that little tragic droop in Agatha's face. The corners of her eyes
and of her beautiful mouth were lifted; as if by--he could find no other
word for the thing he meant but wings. She had a look which, if it were
not of joy, was of something more vivid and positive than peace.

He put it down to their increased and undisturbed communion made
possible by her retirement to Sarratt End. Yet as he looked at her he
sighed again.

In response to his sigh she asked suddenly, "How's Bella?"

His face lighted wonderfully. "It's extraordinary," he said; "she's
better. Miles better. In fact, if it was not tempting Providence, I
should say she was well. She's been, for the last week anyhow, a perfect
angel."

His amazed, uncomprehending look gave her the clue to what had
happened. It was another instance of the astounding and mysterious way
it worked. She must have got at Bella somehow in getting at him. She saw
now no end to the possibilities of the thing. There wasn't anything so
wonderful in making him what, after all, he was; but if she, Bella, had
been, even for a week, a perfect angel, it had made her what she was not
and never had been.

His next utterance came to her with no irrelevance.

"You've been found out."

For a moment she wondered, had he guessed it then, her secret? He had
never known anything about it, and it was not likely that he should know
now. He was indeed very far from knowing when he could think that it was
seeing her that did it.

There was, of course, the other secret, the fact that he did see her;
but she had nev