id. After all, Philippa
was not a child, but a woman grown.

She dried her eyes rather surreptitiously, and then got up and crossed
to where her friend was standing, and put her arm through hers.

"I won't say any more," she said huskily, "because I don't think it is
any use, and although we can't agree, which distresses me infinitely,
our disagreement is not going to divide us. Nothing can hurt our
friendship." In her heart she was already seeking to comfort Philippa
for the pain which she was certain must come, but the girl knew nothing
of that.

Philippa stooped and kissed her without speaking.

"Dickie is getting better every day," Marion went on. "Of course we
shall have to be careful of him for a long time, but I quite hope we
shall be home in a fortnight or three weeks. I shall be glad to be
here. I do not think you ought to be alone--without any woman with
you, I mean. It has been too unfortunate."

"I have made friends with Isabella Vernon," said Philippa. "Looking
back, it seems incredible that the time has been so short--so much has
happened. I seem to have known her for years."

"Who is Isabella Vernon?" asked Marion in surprise.

Philippa explained, and for a moment a hope shot through Marion's mind
that this woman might succeed where she had failed.

"What does she think of it all?" she asked rather nervously.

"She entirely agrees with me, because--you see--she has loved Francis
all her life, and she only thinks of him."

Marion sighed with disappointment. If that was the case any appeal for
interference from that quarter was useless.

"She would come if I wanted her," continued Philippa, "and I see her
fairly constantly." And with that Marion was forced to be content.

As she journeyed back again that evening her thoughts hovered anxiously
between her child in his weakness and her friend in her mistaken
contentment. If only it were possible to divide herself, she thought
piteously, between these two who both needed her so much! But, after
all, did Philippa need her? Not consciously, certainly, and yet Marion
told herself miserably that things would never have tangled themselves
into this knot if she had been at Bessacre. She could not leave
Dickie, for even his father could not satisfy him for any length of
time. It was his mother he clung to in the weariness of convalescence,
and it was out of the question to move him yet.

There was nothing to do but to let things take th