f fatality which had made
her return so dreamlike still numbed her senses. She had come back to
the mountain, as she had known she must come. And, curiously enough, in
returning she had freed herself. In coming back to what she had hated
and feared she had faced a bogie. It would trouble her no more. For all
that she had lost she had gained one thing, Freedom. But even freedom
did not thrill her. She was too horribly tired.

Idly she let her thought drift over the details of her home-coming. Li
Ho had been so surprised. His consternation at seeing her had been
comic. But he had asked no questions, and had given her breakfast in
hospitable haste. In the cottage nothing was altered. It was as if she
had been away overnight. And against this changelessness she knew
herself changed. She was outside of it now. It could never prison her
again.

While she drank Li Ho's coffee, Dr. Farr had come in. He had been told,
she supposed, of her return, for he showed no surprise at seeing
her--had greeted her absently--and sat for a time without speaking, his
long hands folded about the green umbrella. This, too, was familiar and
added to the "yesterday" feeling. He had not changed. It was her
attitude toward him which was different. The curious fear of him, which
she had hidden under a mask of indifference, was no longer there to
hide. Even the fact of his relationship had lost its sharp
significance. She was done with the thing which had made it poignant.
Parentage no longer mattered. So little mattered now.

She had spoken to him cheerfully, ignoring his mood, and he had replied
irritably, like a bad-tempered child who resents some unnecessary claim
upon its attention. But she did not observe him closely. Had she done
so, she might have noticed a curious glazing of the eyes as they lifted
to follow her--shining and depthless like blue steel.

"I do not expect to stay long, father," she told him. "Only until I
find something to do. I am a woman now, you know, and must support
myself."

She spoke as one might speak to a child, and he had nodded and mumbled:
"Yes, yes ... a woman now ... certainly." Then he had begun to
laugh. She had always hated this silent, shaking laugh of his. Even now
it stirred something in her, something urgent and afraid. But she was
too tired to be urged or frightened. She refused to listen.

In the afternoon she had sat out in the sun, not thinking, willing to
be rested by the quiet and drugged by the