way and
leave her in peace.

"Miss Vane," said a deep manly voice that she did not expect to hear, "I
beg your pardon--do I disturb you?"

Enid opened her heavy eyes.

"Oh, Mr. Evandale--not at all, thank you!"

"I was afraid that you were asleep," said the Rector, instantly coming
to her side; "and in that case I should have taken the still greater
liberty of awaking you, for there is a sharp east wind in spite of the
hot sunshine, and to sleep in the shade, as I feared that you were
doing, would be dangerous."

"Thank you," said Enid gently.

She sat erect for a minute or two, then gradually sank back amongst her
cushions, as if not equal to the task of maintaining herself upright.
The Rector stood beside her, a look of trouble in his kind frank eyes.

"Shall I give you my arm back to the house?" he said, after a pause.

"Oh, no, thank you--I am not ill, Mr. Evandale!"

"But you are not well--at least, not very strong?"

"Well--no. No--I suppose that I am not very strong."

She turned away her head; but, notwithstanding the movement, he saw that
a great tear was gathering underneath the veined eyelid, ready to drop
as soon as ever it had a chance.

"Miss Vane," said the rector suddenly, "are you in any trouble? Excuse
me for asking; but your face tells its own story. You were happier a
year ago than you are now."

"Oh, yes," the girl sighed--"much happier!" and then the great tear
fell.

"Can I do nothing to help you? My mission is to those who are in any
trouble; and, apart from that, I thought once that you looked upon me as
a friend." There was a touch of human emotion in the last words which
seemed to bring him closer to Enid than the earlier sentence could have
done. "But I know you have no need of me," the Rector added sorrowfully;
"you have so many friends."

"I have not a friend in the world!" the girl broke out; and then she
half hid her face with her transparently thin fingers, and tried to
conceal the fact that she was weeping.

"Not a friend, Miss Vane?" Mr. Evandale's tone betrayed complete
bewilderment.

"Whom would you call my friend?" said Enid, almost passionately. "Not a
man like my poor uncle, duped, blinded, deceived by any one who chooses
to cajole him? Not a woman like his wife, who hates me, and wants me out
of the way lest I should claim a share of the estate? Oh, I know what I
am saying--I know too well! I can trust neither of them--for he is weak
and under her control,