omething to Augustine. She held out her
hand. "We are friends," she said.

Sir Hugh flushed darkly. He stood holding her hand, looking at it and
not at her. He could not tell what were the confused emotions that
struggled within him; shame and changed love; awe, and broken memories
of prayers that called down blessings. It was "God bless you," that he
felt, yet he did not feel that it was for him to say these words to her.
And no words came; but tears were in his eyes as, in farewell, he bent
over her hand and kissed it.

XII

When Amabel waked next morning a bright dawn filled her room. She
remembered, finding it so light, that before lying down to sleep she had
drawn all her curtains so that, through the open windows, she might see,
until she fell asleep, a wonderful sky of stars. She had not looked at
them for long. She had gone to sleep quickly and quietly, lying on her
side, her face turned to the sky, her arms cast out before her, just as
she had first lain down; and so she found herself lying when she waked.

It was very early. The sun gilded the dark summits of the sycamores that
she could see from her window. The sky was very high and clear, and long,
thin strips of cloud curved in lessening bars across it. The confused
chirpings of the waking birds filled the air. And before any thought had
come to her she smiled as she lay there, looking at and listening to the
wakening life.

Then the remembrance of the dark ordeal that lay before her came. It was
like waking to the morning that was to see one on the scaffold: but,
with something of the light detachment that a condemned prisoner might
feel--nothing being left to hope for and the only strength demanded
being the passive strength to endure--she found that she was thinking
more of the sky and of the birds than of the ordeal. Some hours lay
between her and that; bright, beautiful hours.

She put out her hand and took her watch which lay near. Only six.
Augustine would not expect to see her until ten. Four long hours: she
must get up and spend them out of doors.

It was too early for hot water or maids; she enjoyed the flowing shocks
of the cold and her own rapidity and skill in dressing and coiling up
her hair. She put on her black dress and took her black scarf as a
covering for her head. Slipping out noiselessly, like a truant
school-girl, she made her way to the pantry, found milk and bread, and
ate and drank standing, then, cautiously pushing