landscape, Karen felt as if she had grown very old and were looking
back, after a life-time without Gregory, at the mirage. How faint and
far it would seem to be when she was really old--like a nebulous star
trembling on the horizon. But it would never grow invisible; she would
never forget it; oh never; nor the dreadful pain of loss. To the very
end of life, she was sure of it, she would keep the pang of the shining
memory.

When they reached Helston, dusk had fallen. She found a carriage that
would drive her the twelve miles to the coast. It was a quiet, grey
evening and as they jolted slowly along the dusty roads and climbed the
steep hills at a snail's pace, she leaned back too tired to feel
anything any longer. And now they were out upon the moors where the
gorse was breaking into flowers; and now, over the sea, she saw at last
the great beacon of the Lizard lighthouse sweeping the country with its
vast, desolate, yet benignant beam.

They reached the long road and the stile where, a year before, she had
met Gregory. Here was the hedge of fuchsia; here the tamarisks on their
high bank; here the entrance to Les Solitudes. The steeply pitched grey
roofs rose before her, and the white walls with their squares of orange
light glimmered among the trees.

She alighted, paid the man, and rang.

A maid, unknown to her, came to the door and showed surprise at seeing
her there with her bag.

Yes; Madame von Marwitz was within. Karen had entered with the asking.
"Whom shall I announce, Madam?" the maid inquired.

Karen looked at her vaguely. "She is in the music-room? I do not need to
be announced. That will go to my room." She put down the bag and crossed
the hall.

She was not aware of feeling any emotion; yet a sob had taken her by the
throat and tears had risen to her eyes; she opened them widely as she
entered the dusky room, presenting a strange face.

Madame von Marwitz rose from a distant sofa.

In her astonishment, she stood still for a moment; then, like a great,
white, widely-winged moth, she came forward, rapidly, yet with hesitant,
reconnoitring pauses, her eyes on the girl who stood in the doorway
looking blindly towards her.

"Karen!" she exclaimed sharply. "What brings you here?"

"I have come back to you, Tante," said Karen.

Tante stood before her, not taking her into her arms, not taking her
hands.

"Come back to me? What do you mean?"

"I have left Gregory," said Karen. She was bewildered