gatt. He
went out of the library, and Harney followed him.

Charity thought she detected a look of constraint in Harney's eyes. She
fancied he did not want to be alone with her; and with a sudden pang she
wondered if he repented the tender things he had said to her the night
before. His words had been more fraternal than lover-like; but she had
lost their exact sense in the caressing warmth of his voice. He had made
her feel that the fact of her being a waif from the Mountain was only
another reason for holding her close and soothing her with consolatory
murmurs; and when the drive was over, and she got out of the buggy,
tired, cold, and aching with emotion, she stepped as if the ground were
a sunlit wave and she the spray on its crest.

Why, then, had his manner suddenly changed, and why did he leave the
library with Mr. Miles? Her restless imagination fastened on the name
of Annabel Balch: from the moment it had been mentioned she fancied
that Harney's expression had altered. Annabel Balch at a garden-party at
Springfield, looking "extremely handsome"... perhaps Mr. Miles had seen
her there at the very moment when Charity and Harney were sitting in the
Hyatts' hovel, between a drunkard and a half-witted old woman! Charity
did not know exactly what a garden-party was, but her glimpse of the
flower-edged lawns of Nettleton helped her to visualize the scene, and
envious recollections of the "old things" which Miss Balch avowedly
"wore out" when she came to North Dormer made it only too easy to
picture her in her splendour. Charity understood what associations the
name must have called up, and felt the uselessness of struggling against
the unseen influences in Harney's life.

When she came down from her room for supper he was not there; and while
she waited in the porch she recalled the tone in which Mr. Royall had
commented the day before on their early start. Mr. Royall sat at her
side, his chair tilted back, his broad black boots with side-elastics
resting against the lower bar of the railings. His rumpled grey hair
stood up above his forehead like the crest of an angry bird, and the
leather-brown of his veined cheeks was blotched with red. Charity knew
that those red spots were the signs of a coming explosion.

Suddenly he said: "Where's supper? Has Verena Marsh slipped up again on
her soda-biscuits?"

Charity threw a startled glance at him. "I presume she's waiting for Mr.
Harney."

"Mr. Harney, is she? She'd