portance. Also, thoughts of Windebank now and again
flooded her mind. Then she remembered all he had done for her, at which
gratitude welled from her soul. At such times she would be moved by a
morbid consideration for his feelings; she longed to pay back the money
he had spent on her illness, and felt that her mind would never be at
ease on the matter till she had.

If only he would come down, and, despite anything she could say or do,
insist on marrying her and determine to win her heart; failing that, if
he would only write words of passionate longing which might awaken some
echo in her being! She read and re-read the letter in which he offered
her marriage; she tried to see in his formal phrases some approximation
to a consuming love, but in vain.

She had never answered this letter; she reproached herself for not
having done so. Mavis sat down to write a few words, which would reach
Windebank by the first post in the morning, when she found that the ink
had dried in the pot. She rang the bell. While waiting, a vision of the
piteous look on Harold's face when he had told her of his love came
into her mind. Accompanying this was the recollection of the cause of
which her friendship with Harold was an effect. Hatred of the Devitts
possessed her. She remembered, and rejoiced, that it was now in her
power to be revenged for all she believed she had suffered at their
hands. So black was the quality of this hate that she wondered why she
had delayed so long. When the ink was brought, it was to Harold that
she was about to write; Windebank was forgotten.

As Mavis wrote the day of the month at the head of the page, she seemed
to hear echoes of Harold's resonant voice vibrating with love for her.
She sighed and put down her pen. If only she were less infirm of
purpose. Her hesitations were interrupted by Mrs Budd bringing in a
letter for Mavis that the postman had just left. It was from Mrs
Trivett. It described with a wealth of detail a visit that the writer
had paid to Pennington Churchyard, where she had taken flowers to lay
on the little grave. Certain nerves in the bereaved mother's face
quivered as she read. Memories of the long-drawn agony which had
followed upon her boy's death crowded into her mind. Mavis hardened her
heart.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

MAVIS'S REVENGE

Upon a day on which the trees and hedges were again frocked in spring
finery in honour of approaching summer, Mrs Devitt was sitting with