that he loved her. There had been more than one, but the one man
stood out clear and distinct from all others; she could even remember
the words he had used.

"If, in telling you that I love you, I have sinned past all forgiveness,
I glory in it, and I take not one word of it back."

Yet how could he love her? How could he, when he had insulted her, when
he had used her name, as he had, when he had humiliated and shamed her,
how could he profess to love her? And they had met but three times in
their lives.

"Joan, dear," Helen Everard said, "Joan!"

"Yes? I am sorry, I--I was thinking." Joan looked up.

Helen had come into the room, an open letter in her hand.

"I wrote to John and Constance Everard, my nephew and niece," Helen
said. "I told them I was here with you, and asked them to come over.
They are coming to-morrow, dear. I think you will like them."

"I am sure I shall," Joan said; but there was no enthusiasm in her
voice, only cold politeness that seemed to chill a little.

"I glory in it," she was thinking, "and take not one word of it back."
She shrugged her shoulders disdainfully and turned away.

"What time will they be coming, Helen?" she asked, for she had made up
her mind. She would think no more of this man, and remember no more of
his speeches. She would wipe him out of her memory. Life for her would
begin again here in Starden, and the past should hold nothing, nothing,
nothing!

CHAPTER XVI

ELLICE

Buddesby, in the Parish of Little Langbourne, was a small place compared
with Starden Hall. Buddesby claimed to be nothing more than a farmhouse
of a rather exalted type. For generations the Everards had been
gentlemen farmers, farming their own land and doing exceedingly badly by
it.

Matthew, late owner of Buddesby, had taken up French gardening on a
large scale, and had squandered a great part of his capital on glass
cloches, fragments of which were likely to litter Buddesby for many a
year to come.

John, his son, had turned his back on intensive culture and had gone
back to the old family failing of hops. The Everard family had probably
flung away more money on hops than any other family in Kent.

The Everards were not rich. The shabby, delightful old rooms, the
tumble-down appearance of the ancient house, the lack of luxuries proved
it, but they were exceedingly content.

Constance was a slim, pale, fair-haired girl with a singularly sweet
expression and the temper, as h