utline. Something in her movement
caught his eye and carried his memory back to a sundown at Hunstanton.
Then as she came nearer he saw that it was Eleanor.

It was odd to see her here. He had thought she was at Newnham.

But anyhow it was very pleasant to see her. And there was something in
Eleanor that promised an answer to his necessity. The girl had a kind
of instinctive wisdom. She would understand the quality of his situation
better perhaps than any one. He would put the essentials of that
situation as fully and plainly as he could to her. Perhaps she, with
that clear young idealism of hers, would give him just the lift and the
light of which he stood in need. She would comprehend both sides of it,
the points about Phoebe as well as the points about God.

When first he saw her she seemed to be hurrying, but now she had fallen
to a loitering pace. She looked once or twice behind her and then ahead,
almost as though she expected some one and was not sure whether this
person would approach from east or west. She did not observe her father
until she was close upon him.

Then she was so astonished that for a moment she stood motionless,
regarding him. She made an odd movement, almost as if she would have
walked on, that she checked in its inception. Then she came up to him
and stood before him. "It's Dad," she said.

"I didn't know you were in London, Norah," he began.

"I came up suddenly."

"Have you been home?"

"No. I wasn't going home. At least--not until afterwards."

Then she looked away from him, east and then west, and then met his eye
again.

"Won't you sit down, Norah?"

"I don't know whether I can."

She consulted the view again and seemed to come to a decision. "At
least, I will for a minute."

She sat down. For a moment neither of them spoke....

"What are you doing here, little Norah?"

She gathered her wits. Then she spoke rather volubly. "I know it looks
bad, Daddy. I came up to meet a boy I know, who is going to France
to-morrow. I had to make excuses--up there. I hardly remember what
excuses I made."

"A boy you know?"

"Yes."

"Do we know him?"

"Not yet."

For a time Scrope forgot the Church of the One True God altogether. "Who
is this boy?" he asked.

With a perceptible effort Eleanor assumed a tone of commonsense
conventionality. "He's a boy I met first when we were skating last year.
His sister has the study next to mine."

Father looked at daughter, and she met hi