rofoundly deceived in him. Nevertheless, his wistful and honest glance,
as he parted from her, had its effect. If he had not one quality, he had
another. She tried hard to maintain her scorn of him, but it was
exceedingly difficult to do so.

Mr. Orgreave wiped his brow as the car jolted them out of the tumult of
the Centenary. It was hot, but he did not seem to be in the slightest
degree fatigued or dispirited, whereas Janet put back her head and shut
her eyes.

"Caught sight of a friend of yours this morning, Hilda!" he said
pleasantly.

"Oh!"

"Yes. Mr. Cannon. By the way, I forgot to tell you yesterday that his
famous newspaper--_yours_--has come to an end." He spoke, as it were,
with calm sympathy. "Yes! Well, it's not surprising, not surprising!
Nothing's ever stood up against the _Signal_ yet!"

Hilda was saddened. When they reached Lane End House, a few seconds in
front of the hurrying and apologetic servants, Mrs. Orgreave told her
that Mr. George Cannon had called to see her, and had left a note for
her. She ran up to her room with the note. It said merely that the
writer wished to have an interview with her at once.

* * * * *

BOOK III
HER BURDEN

CHAPTER I
HILDA INDISPENSABLE

I

Hilda made no response of any kind to George Cannon's request for an
immediate interview, allowing day after day to pass in inactivity, and
wondering the while how she might excuse or explain her singular conduct
when circumstances should bring the situation to a head. She knew that
she ought either to go over to Turnhill, or write him with an
appointment to see her at Lane End House; but she did nothing; nor did
she say a word of the matter to Janet in the bedroom at nights. All that
she could tell herself was that she did not want to see George Cannon;
she was not honestly persuaded that she feared to see him. In the
meantime, Edwin Clayhanger was invisible, though the removal of the
Clayhanger household to the new residence at Bleakridge had made a
considerable stir of straw and litter in Trafalgar Road.

On Tuesday in the following week she received a letter from Sarah
Gailey. It was brought up to her room early in the morning by a
half-dressed Alicia Orgreave, and she read it as she lay in bed. Sarah
Gailey, struggling with the complexities of the Cedars, away in Hornsey,
was unwell and gloomily desolate. She wrote that she suffered from
terrible headaches on waking