ible passion of tears. I tried to hold her, but she
pulled away from me and laid her head upon her arms and sobbed.

I stayed beside her and comforted her as best I could, and finally went
to Jane's medicine cupboard and mixed her a dose of sal volatile.

When she was a little quieter, I said, 'Tell me nothing more than you
feel inclined to, darling. But if it would make you happier to talk to me
about it, do.'

'I c-can't talk about it,' she sobbed.

'My poor pet!... Did it happen after you got here, or before?'

I felt her stiffen and grow tense, as at a dreadful memory.

'After.... But I was in my room; I wasn't there.'

'You heard the fall, I suppose....'

She shuddered, and nodded.

'And you came out....' I helped her gently, 'as Jane did, and
found him....'

She burst out crying afresh. I almost wished I had not suggested this
outlet for her horror and grief.

'Don't, mother,' she sobbed. 'I can't talk about it--I can't.'

'My pet, of course you can't, and you shan't. It was thoughtless of me to
think that speech would be a relief. Lie down on your bed, dear, and have
a good rest, and you will feel better presently.'

But she opposed that too.

'I can't stay here. I want to go home _at once. At once_, mother.'

'My dearest child, you must wait for me. I can't let you go alone in
this state, and I can't, of course, go myself until Jane is ready to
come with me.'

'I'm going,' she repeated. 'I can go alone. I'm going now, at once.'

And she began feverishly cramming her things into her suit-case.

I was anxious about her, but I did not like to thwart her in her present
mood. Then I heard Frank's voice in the drawing-room, and I thought I
would get him to accompany her, at least to the station. Frank and Clare
have always been fond of one another, and she has a special reliance on
clergymen.

I went into the drawing-room, and found Frank and Johnny both there, with
Jane and Percy. So that dreadful Jew must have gone.

I told Frank that Clare was in a terrible state, and entrusted her
to his care. Frank is a good unselfish brother, and he went to look
after her.

Johnny, silent and troubled, and looking as if death was out of his line,
though, Heaven knows, he had seen enough of it during the last five
years, was fidgeting awkwardly about the room. His awkwardness was, no
doubt, partly due to the fact that he had never much cared for Oliver.
This does make things awkward, in the presence of t