lets;
and there, in black letters of unmistakable clearness on the gilding of
the frame, the one word "Philippa."

On the table in front of the portrait was a bowl of violets--nothing
else--just as might stand the offering at some shrine.

Beyond this one great mystery the room itself was devoid of anything
out of the ordinary. The walls were panelled in white with touches of
a pale grey colour; there were a few pictures, not many. The two
windows were hung with a bright chintz of a somewhat old-fashioned
design which matched the coverings of chairs and sofa, but the curtains
were not drawn and the blinds were up.

From where she sat Philippa could see the moonlight flooding the
sleeping park-land, and in the distance a clump of elm-trees outlined
clear and lacy in the silver light.

Before one of the windows stood a large table littered with papers, a
tumbler of water holding some brushes, and a drawing-board. By the
fireplace was a comfortable chair, and on the floor beside it, as if
dropped by a sudden careless movement of the reader, a book face
downwards; and with the curious involuntary attention to detail to
which we are liable in moments of strain, she noticed, almost with
annoyance, that some of the pages were turned back and creased by the
fall.

The room told of nothing beyond an everyday homelike peace; there was
nothing to help her elucidate the mystery.

And all the while the man at her feet was pouring out a stream of
rapid, fervent words. "And still you did not come! Ah, love! the
long, long shadows--purple shadows--mysterious, unfathomable. No sun,
no warmth, excepting when I saw you in my dreams--distant, illusive.
No brightness, only darkness, until you came. But I knew you would
come. Dearest, love makes no mistake, does it? Such love as mine that
calling--calling--must draw you to me at the last. My beautiful Phil!
my dreams of you never equalled the dear nearness of you. The night is
past--the shadows are swept away, for the dawn has come--the dawn that
was so long in coming, for it could only break to the music of your
footfall. Phil, why do you look at me like that?" he queried suddenly.
"Is it possible that I have frightened you? God knows I did not mean
to. Or was it yesterday, sweetheart, did I hurt you? Truly, dear one,
I did not mean to. I said that you were cold--I did not blame you--I
did not think of blaming you; but my love for you is so great, so
overwhelming, th