a solicitude which never varied, there was nothing in her
manner to denote passionate affection, nor did the child appear to
desire it. Even to Cherry her voice, rich and deep as it was, never
softened; and she rarely used an endearing term. Yet Cherry appeared to
be quite satisfied; and Anstice came to the conclusion that the child's
fine instinct was able to pierce behind this apparent coldness to the
warm human love which doubtless lay beneath.

One fact about Mrs. Carstairs he was not slow in discovering. With the
exception of Iris Wayne and her father, Chloe appeared to be absolutely
devoid of friends, even of casual acquaintances. The Littlefield people,
who had been first surprised, then outraged, by her reappearance among
them, had long since decided that for them Cherry Orchard was _tabu_;
and although the Vicar, Mr. Carey, successor to the man whose wife had
raised the storm in which Chloe Carstairs' barque had come to shipwreck,
had called upon her, and endeavoured, in his gentle, courtly fashion, to
make her welcome, his parishioners had no intention of following his
example.

That Mrs. Carstairs felt her isolation in a social sense Anstice did not
believe; but that she must feel very lonely at times, find the days very
long and empty, he felt pretty well assured. She was not an accomplished
woman in the usual sense of the word. He never found her playing the
piano, or painting water-colour pictures as did so many of the women ha
visited. She did not appear to care for needlework, and in spite of the
books scattered about the house, he rarely saw her reading; yet all the
while he had a feeling that had she desired to shine in any or all of
the arts peculiar to women she would have no difficulty in doing so.

That she ordered her household excellently he knew from the glimpses he
had obtained of her domestic life; but there again she was assisted by a
staff of superior servants who all, from her personal attendant, the
devoted Tochatti, down to the boy who cleaned the knives, worshipped
their mistress with a wholehearted affection which held about it a touch
of something almost resembling fanaticism.

One day Anstice did find her with a book in her hand; and on venturing
to inquire into its contents was informed it was a well-known _Treatise
on Chess_.

"Do you play?" he asked, rather astonished, for in common with many men
he imagined chess to be almost purely a masculine pastime.

"Yes--at least I us