had kept up a blazing fire in the lean-to kitchen. Diana
went up-stairs to change her dress, for she had the dishes now to wash
up; and Mrs. Starling stood in front of the fire-place, pondering. She
had been pondering all the time of the drive home, as well as much of
the time spent at Elmfield; she believed she had come to a conclusion;
and yet she delayed her purpose. It was clear, she said to herself,
that Diana did not care for Lieut. Knowlton; at least not much; her
fancy might have been stirred. But what is a girl's fancy? Nothing
worth considering. Letters, if allowed, might nourish the fancy up into
something else. She would destroy this first one. She had determined on
that. Yet she lingered. Conscience spoke uneasily. What if she were
misled by appearances, and Diana had more than a fancy for this young
fellow? Then she would crush it! Nobody would be the wiser, and nobody
would die of grief; those things were done in stories only. Mrs.
Starling hesitated nevertheless, with her hand on the letter, till the
sound of Diana's step in the house decided her action. She was afraid
to wait; some accident might overthrow all her arrangements; and with a
hasty movement she drew the packet from her bosom and tucked it under
the fofestick, where a bed of glowing nutwood coals lay ready. Quick
the fire caught the light tindery edges, made a little jet of
excitement about the large wax seal, fought its way through the thick
folds of paper, and in a moment had left only a mock sheet of cinder,
with mock marks of writing still traceable vividly upon it. A letter
still, manifestly, sharp-edged and square; it glowed at Mrs. Starling
from its bed of coals, with the curious impassiveness of material
things; as if the happiness of two lives had not shrivelled within it.
Mrs. Starling stood looking. What had been written upon that fiery
scroll? It was vain to ask now; and hearing Diana coming down-stairs,
she took the tongs and punched the square cinder that kept its form too
well. Little bits of paper, grey cinder with red edges, fluttered in
the draught, and flew up in the smoke.

"What are you burning there, mother?" said Diana.

And Mrs. Starling answered a guilty "Nothing," and walked away. Diana
looked at the little fluttering cinders, and an uneasy sensation came
over her, that yet took no form of suspicion; and passed, for the thing
was impossible. So near she came to it.

Why had Mrs. Starling not at least read the le