more about me than I know about myself," said Garda, with a
momentary curiosity as to her own characteristics.

"We must go back," said Margaret, her fatigue again showing in her
voice.

Garda put her arm round her as a support, and, thus linked, they walked
back through the long avenue over the silver lace-work cast by the moon
upon the path. Carlos Mateo, who had been off on unknown excursions,
joined them again, issuing in a ghostly manner from the Spanish-bayonet
walk, and falling into his usual place behind them. The linked figures
crossed the open space, which was again as white as snow with black
trees at the edges, and went softly in through the unfastened door.

"I'm going to get you a glass of wine," Garda whispered.

Margaret declined the wine, and they separated, each going noiselessly
to her own room.

But, half an hour later, Garda stole in and leaned over her friend.
"You're crying," she said--"I knew it! Oh, Margaret, Margaret, why do
you suffer so?"

"Don't mind," said Margaret, controlling herself. "I have my own
troubles, Garda, and must bear them as I can. Go back to your room."

But Garda would not go. As there was no place for her in Margaret's
narrow white bed, she got a coverlet and pillows and lay down on a
lounge that was near; here, almost immediately, though she said she
should not, she fell asleep. The elder woman did not sleep, she lay
watching the moonlight steal over the girl, then fade away. Later came
the pink flush of dawn; it touched the lounge, but Garda slept on; she
slept like a little child; her curling hair fell over her shoulders, her
cheek was pillowed on her round arm.

"So much truthfulness--such absolute truthfulness!" the elder woman was
thinking; "there must be good in it, there _must_."

CHAPTER XX.

"It's the most absurd thing--my being caught here in this way," said
Lucian Spenser. "But who would ever have imagined that Madam Giron could
turn into a tourist! As well imagine Torres a commercial traveller."

"I think he felt rather like one," answered Margaret, smiling; "he
seemed to consider it an extraordinary state of affairs to be closing
houses and taking journeys at a lawyer's bidding."

It was the 19th day of December. The thermometer outside stood at
sixty-eight Fahrenheit. In the drawing-room of East Angels were Mrs.
Carew, Margaret, Garda, Lucian Spenser, and Dr. Kirby. Lucian and his
wife had left Gracias within a week after that sail thr