ter, sitting on a bench above the blue
Mediterranean, in the pine woods of the Cap d'Antibes. She had torn
it open in hope, and the reading of it depressed her. In the
pine-scented, sun-warmed air she sat for long motionless and sad. The
delicate greenish light fell on the soft brown hair, the white face
and hands. Eugenie's deep black had now assumed a slight 'religious'
air which disturbed Lord Findon, and kindled the Protestant wrath
of her stepmother. That short moment of a revived _mondanite_ which
Versailles had witnessed, was wholly past; and for the first and only
time in her marred life, Eugenie's natural gaiety was quenched. She
knew well that in the burden which weighed upon her there were morbid
elements; but she could only bear it; she could not smile under it.

Fenwick's letter led her thoughts back to the early incidents of
this fruitless search. Especially did she recall every moment of her
interview with Daisy Hewson--Phoebe Fenwick's former nursemaid, now
married to a small Westmoreland farmer. One of the first acts of the
lawyers had been to induce this woman to come to London to repeat once
more what she knew of the catastrophe.

Then, after the examination by the lawyers, Eugenie had pleaded that
she might see her--and see her alone. Accordingly, a shy and timid
woman, speaking with a broad Westmoreland accent, called one morning
in Dean's Yard.

Eugenie had won from her many small details the lawyers had been
unable to extract. They were not, alack, of a kind to help the search
for Phoebe; but, interpreted by the aid of her own quick imagination,
they drew a picture of the lost mother and child, which sank deep,
deep, into Eugenie's soul.

Mrs. Fenwick, said Mrs. Hewson, scarcely spoke on the journey south.
She sat staring out of window, with her hands on her lap, and Daisy
thought there was 'soomat wrang'--but dared not ask. In saying
good-bye at Euston, Mrs. Fenwick had kissed her, and given the guard a
shilling to look after her. She was holding Carrie in her arms, as
the train moved away. The girl had supposed she was going to join her
husband.

And barely a week later, John Fenwick had been dining in St. James's
Square, looking harassed and ill indeed--it was supposed, from
overwork; but, to his best friends, as silent as that grave of
darkness and oblivion which had closed over his wife.

Yet, as the weeks of thought went on, Eugenie blamed him less and
less. Her clear intelligence sh