a starving woman, but they did just help to keep
her heart alive--that poor, aching, disappointed heart that so longed
for enduring happiness which it could never get.

The man whom she loved with all her soul, her mind and her body, did
not belong to her; he belonged to suffering humanity over there in
terror-stricken France, where the cries of the innocent, the persecuted,
the wretched called louder to him than she in her love could do.

He had been away three months now, during which time her starving heart
had fed on its memories, and the happiness of a brief visit from him six
weeks ago, when--quite unexpectedly--he had appeared before her... home
between two desperate adventures that had given life and freedom to a
number of innocent people, and nearly cost him his--and she had lain in
his arms in a swoon of perfect happiness.

But he had gone away again as suddenly as he had come, and for six weeks
now she had lived partly in anticipation of the courier with messages
from him, and partly on the fitful joy engendered by these messages.
To-day she had not even that, and the disappointment seemed just now
more than she could bear.

She felt unaccountably restless, and could she but have analysed her
feelings--had she dared so to do--she would have realised that the
weight which oppressed her heart so that she could hardly breathe, was
one of vague yet dark foreboding.

She closed the window and returned to her seat by the fire, taking up
her hook with the strong resolution not to allow her nerves to get the
better of her. But it was difficult to pin one's attention down to the
adventures of Master Tom Jones when one's mind was fully engrossed with
those of Sir Percy Blakeney.

The sound of carriage wheels on the gravelled forecourt in the front of
the house suddenly awakened her drowsy senses. She threw down the book,
and with trembling hands clutched the arms of her chair, straining
her ears to listen. A carriage at this hour--and on this damp winter's
evening! She racked her mind wondering who it could be.

Lady Ffoulkes was in London, she knew. Sir Andrew, of course, was in
Paris. His Royal Highness, ever a faithful visitor, would surely not
venture out to Richmond in this inclement weather--and the courier
always came on horseback.

There was a murmur of voices; that of Edwards, mechanical and placid,
could be heard quite distinctly saying:

"I'm sure that her ladyship will be at home for you, m'lady.