d--he's alive--But he's very, very ill.'

'Oh, you poor lamb!' cried Mrs. Dowson. 'No--Sir William tellt me nowt.
The Lord be gracious to you!' Bathed in sudden tears, she kissed one of
the hands that held hers, pouring out incoherent words of hope. But
Nelly did not cry, and presently she said firmly--

'Now, please, you must help me to pack. Sir William will be here at
nine.'

Presently all was ready. Nelly had hunted out an old grey travelling
dress in which George had often seen her, and a grey hat with a veil.
She hastily put all her black clothes aside.

'Miss Martin will send me anything I want. I have asked her to come and
fetch my things.'

'But Miss Cookson will be seein' to that!' said Mrs. Dowson wondering.
Nelly made no reply. She locked her little box, and then stood upright,
looking round the small room. She seemed to be saying 'Good-bye' for
ever to the Nelly who had lived, and dreamed, and prayed there. She was
going to George--that was all she knew.

Downstairs, Bridget was standing at the door of the little dining-room.
'I have put out some cold meat for you,' she said, stiffly. 'You won't
get anything for a long time.'

Nelly acquiesced. She drank some tea, and ate as much as she could.
Neither she nor Bridget spoke, till Bridget, who was at the window
looking out into the snow, turned round to say--'Here's the motor.'

Nelly rose, and tied her veil on closely. Mrs. Dowson brought her a
thick coat, which had been part of her trousseau, and wrapped her in it.

'You had better take your grey shawl,' said Bridget.

'I have it here, Miss,' said Mrs. Dowson, producing it. 'I'll put it
over her in the motor.'

She disappeared to open the door to Sir William's knock.

Nelly turned to her sister.

'Good-bye, Bridget.'

Bridget flamed out.

'And you don't mean to write to me? You mean to carry out this absurd
plan of separation!'

'I don't know what I shall do--till I have seen George,' said Nelly
steadily. 'He'll settle for me. Only you and I are not sisters any
more.'

Bridget shrugged her shoulders, with some angry remark about 'theatrical
nonsense.' Nelly went out into the passage, threw her arms about Mrs.
Dowson's neck, for a moment, and then hurried out towards the car. It
stood there in the falling snow, its bright lights blazing on the bit of
Westmorland wall opposite, and the overhanging oaks, still heavy with
dead leaf. Farrell was standing at the door, holding a fur rug. He a