and nothing more was said upon
the subject.

Stella neither played the violin nor sang that night, nor, indeed, again
while she remained alone with Morris at the Abbey. Both of them felt
that under the circumstances this form of pleasure would be out of
place, if not unfeeling, and it was never suggested. For the rest,
however, their life went on as usual. On two or three occasions when the
weather was suitable some further experiments were carried out with the
aerophone, but on most days Stella was engaged in preparing the Rectory,
a square, red-brick house, dating from the time of George III., to
receive them as soon as her father could be moved. Very fortunately, as
has been said, their journey in the steamer Trondhjem had been decided
upon so hurriedly that there was no time to allow them to ship their
heavy baggage and furniture, which were left to follow, and thus escaped
destruction. Now at length these had arrived, and the unpacking and
arrangement gave her constant thought and occupation, in which Morris
occasionally assisted.

One evening, indeed, he stayed in the Rectory with her, helping to hang
some pictures till about half-past six o'clock, when they started for
the Abbey. As it chanced, a heavy gale was blowing that night, one of
the furious winter storms which are common on this coast, and its worst
gusts beat upon Stella so fiercely that she could scarcely stand, and
was glad to accept the support of Morris's arm. As they struggled
along the high road thus, a particularly savage blast tore the hood of
Stella's ulster from her head, whereupon, leaning over her in such a
position that his face was necessarily quite close to her own, with some
difficulty he managed to replace the hood.

It was while Morris was so engaged that a dog-cart, which because of the
roar of the wind he did not hear, and because of his position he could
not see until it was almost passing them, came slowly down the road.

Then catching the gleam of the lamps he looked up and started back,
thinking that they were being run into, to perceive that the occupants
of the dog-cart were Stephen and Eliza Layard.

At the same moment Stephen recognised them, as indeed he could scarcely
help doing with the light of the powerful lamp shining full upon their
faces. He shouted something to his sister, who also stared coldly at the
pair. Then a kind of fury seemed to seize the little man; at any rate,
he shook his clenched fist in a menacing