studied her pale face. She was not beautiful, and
Rupert was absurd. She was colourless and rather dull, and to compare
her with the radiant being in the other room was to hold a stable
lantern to a star.

She turned from her contemplation and, changing grey dress for grey
dressing-gown, she brushed her long, straight hair. Ten minutes later
she left the room and went about the house to see that all was ready for
the guest.

She put coal on the fire in Christopher and left the door ajar so that
the flames might cast warm light on the landing: she took a towel from
the rail and changed it for another finer one; then she went quietly
down the stairs, with a smile for Mr. Pinderwell, and fancied she smelt
the spring through the open windows. The hall had a dimness which hid
and revealed the rich mahogany of the clock and cupboard and the table
from which more primroses sent up a memory of moonlight and a fragrance
which was no sooner seized than lost. She could hear Mrs. Samson in the
kitchen as she watched over the turbot, and from the schoolroom there
came the scraping of a chair. John had dressed as quickly as herself.

In the dining-room she found her stepmother standing by the fire.

"Oh, you look sweet!" Helen exclaimed. "I love you in that dark blue."

"I think I'll wait in the drawing-room," Mildred Caniper said, and went
away.

Once more, Helen wandered to the doorway; she always sought the open
when she was unhappy and, as she looked over the gathering darkness, she
tried not to remember the tone of Notya's words.

"It's like pushing me off a wall I'm trying to climb," she thought, "but
I mean to climb it." And for the second time within an hour, she gave
tongue to her sustaining maxim: "I must just go on."

She hoped Uncle Alfred was not expectant of affection.

Night was coming down. The road was hardly separable from the moor, and
it was the Brent Farm dogs which warned her of the visitor's approach.
Two yellow dots slowly swelled into carriage lamps, and the rolling of
wheels and the thud of hoofs were faintly heard. She went quickly to the
schoolroom.

"John, the trap's coming."

"Well, what d'you want me to do about it? Stop it?"

"I wish you could."

"Now, don't get fussy."

"I'm not."

"Not get fussy?"

"Not getting fussy."

"That's better. If your grammar's all right the nerves must be in
order."

"You're stupid, John. I only want some one to support me--on the step."

"Need we