you want me?" she asked sadly.

"Quite certain, but you're not going to object to criticism, are you?"
he asked.

She shook her head.

"Well then--" he began and they both smiled, simultaneously reassured
about each other.

"And will you take me with you when you go back? Perhaps on Monday?"

"If the mistress of the house approves." This was addressed to Helen,
who had entered.

"On Monday, Helen, may I go?"

"Yes. But then we ought to have told the trap to come for you."

"There's always George," Miriam said with innocence.

"Yes, he's always there. That's quite true," Helen said, and she spoke
hollowly, as though she were indeed the shell she felt herself to be.

"But," Miriam went on, "it would be unkind to ask him."

To Uncle Alfred's concern, Helen leaned towards her sister, and spoke
rapidly, in a hard, angry voice.

"Stop saying things like that! They're not funny. They make you
ridiculous. And they're cruel. You've no respect--no respect for people.
And George is better than you. He's sorry. That's something--a great
deal. I'm not going to have him laughed at."

"Now, now," Uncle Alfred said feebly, but Helen had stopped, amazed at
herself and at the loyalty which George evoked already. She knew,
unwillingly, that it was a loyalty of more than words, for in her heart
she felt that, in truth, she could not have him mocked. She stared
before her, realizing herself and looking into a future blocked by
George's bulk. She could not remember what she had been saying to
Miriam; she looked at her, huddled in her chair against the storm, and
at Uncle Alfred, standing with his back to the fire, jauntily swinging
his eyeglass to seem at ease.

"Was I rude?" she asked.

"No, just horrid."

She went from the room slowly, through the passage and the kitchen into
the garden, and George's figure went before her. She looked up at the
poplars and saw that they would soon have their leaves to peep into the
windows and whisper secrets of the Canipers.

"They knew," she said solemnly, "they always knew what was to happen."

Beyond the garden door she walked into a dark, damp world: mist was
settling on the moor; drops spangled her dress and rested softly on her
face and hands. She shut her eyes and seemed to be walking through
emptiness, a place unencumbered by thoughts and people; yet she was not
surprised when she was caught and held.

"Let go!" she said, without opening her eyes, and she was obeyed.

"I