about with me to avert accident, but even
these precautions haven't comforted her much. Whenever I return home I
see her waiting anxiously at the gate with a face long enough to
propitiate all the gods of misfortune, and when she sees me she finds
it hard to believe that I am not dragging myself home to die of some
hidden wound.

"But never mind! I have known the good woman suffer from these attacks
of depression before. It will pass and she will be restored to her
accustomed cheerfulness. I have already told her that her symptoms
point to indigestion, to which she replied darkly that by some
oversight the last pig was killed at the waning of the moon, and that
possibly the pork was 'a bit unheartsome' in consequence. Come and see
her some day if you can. I dare say the sight of you will appease the
bees and restore her to sanity."

"I will if I possibly can," returned Philippa doubtfully. "But you
know, I do not like to go very far in case Francis might ask for me.
Could you not come and see me?"

Isabella hesitated. "I do not think I will come to Bessacre unless you
really want me--for anything particular, I mean. If I can be of any
use to you, send for me, and I will come at once; but otherwise I think
it will be better not."

They parted soon afterwards, and Isabella trudged back to her home
across the sunlit moor with slow and lagging step. Philippa's words
had indeed "knocked at her heart and found her thoughts at home," and
the old wound throbbed with a dull fierce ache. She, with her intimate
knowledge of Francis, could picture to herself the whole course of
recent events.

Had she not known him as a lover, wooing Phil with all the strength of
his early manhood, all the force of the flood-tide of his love? Had
she not seen him curbing that love lest any demonstration of too open
affection might harm his cause with the woman who had not "liked
heroics," wooing with innocent devices and tender subtlety? And she
could almost hear the words he must have spoken when again he wooed.
Small wonder that Philippa's heart had awaked to his appeal. The fact
of her own affection, although it did not entirely blind her, distorted
her outlook. She only saw that Francis' peace of mind must be
preserved at all costs, and it was not likely that she, who would have
sacrificed herself gladly for his lightest good, could bring a clear
judgment to bear upon the ethics of the case. Had she been in
Philippa's pla