eal an appreciation of her wealth as of her
personal attributes. But she took her place in London life with more
than the old will to make for herself, with the help of her aunt
Conyngham, an individual position.

The second year after her visit to Egypt she was less haunted by the
dark episode of the Palace, memory tortured her less; she came to think
of David and the part he had played with less agitation. At first the
thought of him had moved her alternately to sympathy and to revolt. His
chivalry had filled her with admiration, with a sense of confidence,
of dependence, of touching and vital obligation; but there was, too,
another overmastering feeling. He had seen her life naked, as it
were, stripped of all independence, with the knowledge of a dangerous
indiscretion which, to say the least, was a deformity; and she inwardly
resented it, as one would resent the exposure of a long-hidden physical
deformity, even by the surgeon who saved one's life. It was not a very
lofty attitude of mind, but it was human--and feminine.

These moods had been always dissipated, however, when she recalled,
as she did so often, David as he stood before Nahoum Pasha, his soul
fighting in him to make of his enemy--of the man whose brother he had
killed--a fellow-worker in the path of altruism he had mapped out for
himself. David's name had been continually mentioned in telegraphic
reports and journalistic correspondence from Egypt; and from this source
she had learned that Nahoum Pasha was again high in the service of
Prince Kaid. When the news of David's southern expedition to the
revolting slave-dealing tribes began to appear, she was deeply roused.
Her agitation was the more intense because she never permitted
herself to talk of him to others, even when his name was discussed at
dinner-tables, accompanied by strange legends of his origin and stranger
romances regarding his call to power by Kaid.

She had surrounded him with romance; he seemed more a hero of history
than of her own real and living world, a being apart. Even when there
came rumblings of disaster, dark dangers to be conquered by the Quaker
crusader, it all was still as of another life. True it was, that when
his safe return to Cairo was announced she had cried with joy and
relief; but there was nothing emotional or passionate in her feeling;
it was the love of the lower for the higher, the hero-worship of an
idealist in passionate gratitude.

And, amid it all, her m