indness not to trouble him with it until he
returns to town, which will not be for another fortnight."

Daphne walked restlessly up and down her hotel sitting-room. Of course
the matter was urgent. The health of an East-End clergyman--already, it
appeared, much amended--was not likely to seem of much importance to a
woman of her temperament, when it stood in the way of her plans.

But she would not write, she would go. She had good reason to suppose
that Herbert French would not welcome a visit from her; he might indeed
very easily use his health as an excuse for not seeing her. But she must
see him.

By mid-day she was already on her way to the Isle of Wight. About five
o'clock she arrived at Ventnor, where she deposited maid and luggage.
She then drove out alone to St. Damian's, a village a few miles north,
through a radiant evening. The twinkling sea was alive with craft of all
sizes, from the great liner leaving its trail of smoke along the
horizon, to the white-sailed yachts close upon the land. The woods of
the Undercliff sank softly to the blues and purple, the silver streaks
and gorgeous shadows of the sea floor. The lights were broad and rich.
After a hot day, coolness had come and the air was delightful.

But Daphne sat erect, noticing nothing but the relief of the lowered
temperature after her hot and tiresome journey. She applied herself
occasionally to natural beauty, as she applied herself to music or
literature, but it is not to women of her type that the true passion of
it--"the soul's bridegroom"--comes. And she was absorbed in thinking how
she should open her business to Herbert French.

Prospect House turned out to be a detached villa standing in a garden,
with a broad view of the Channel. Daphne sent her carriage back to the
inn and climbed the steep drive which led up to the verandaed house. The
front garden was empty, but voices--voices, it seemed, of children--came
from behind the house where there was a grove of trees.

"Is Mr. Herbert French at home?" she asked of the maid who answered her
bell.

The girl looked at her doubtfully.

"Yes, ma'am--but he doesn't see visitors yet. Shall I tell Mrs. French?
She's in the garden with the children."

"No, thank you," said Daphne, firmly. "It's Mr. French I have come to
see, and I am sure that he will wish to see me. Will you kindly give him
my card? I will come in and wait."

And she brushed past the maid, who was intimidated by the visitor's