ollect or recall to herself how it had all come about. It was too remote from anything in her previous waking thought, too dream-like, too impossible. Then an unspeakable horror

fear; it was a strange creeping feeling of in

impossible episode. She must have gone mad

he was going mad-if this was really mania-she

knew that now. She knew she wa

t last night, was the idea that she could never marry Cyril Waring. And if Cyril Waring could have seen her just then! her cheeks burned yet a brighter sc

he mad? And was th

at the door of her bedroom. It was a timid, small knock, very low and soft, and, as it were, inquiring. It seemed to say in an apologetic sort of

e to ask, in a hushed voice of terror,

ak in so tender and gentle a tone before, though they loved one another well, and were far more sympathe

sense of being caught she looked down at h

mamma come in and catch me like this. She'll ask why on earth I didn't undres

ered through the door, in a very penitent voice, "Oh, mother, I can't let you in just yet. Do you min

little ring of terror in it, as she r

That's all right. Sta

p if you'd rather have

elf at all. I'll come

the m

she felt dimly conscious something strange had happened. Mrs. Cli

folded her clothes neatly, one by one, on a chair; hid the peccant boa away in its own lower drawer; buttoned her neat little embroidered nightdress tightly round her throat; arranged her front hair into a careless disorder; and tried to cool down her fiery r

of the Clifford family. She looked tenderly at Elma-Elma with her face half buried in the pillows, and the tell-tale flush still crimsoning her

dry toast-yes, yes. I have been there. Some eau de Cologne on your forehead, dear? There, there, don't cry, Elma. You'll be better by-and-by. Stop in bed till lunch-time. I won't let Lucy co

her of what she thought or felt. But their mute sympathy itself made them more shame-faced than ever. In some dim, indefinite, instinctive fashion, Elma knew her mother was vaguely aware what she had done last night. Her gaze fell half unconsciously on the bottom drawer. With quick insight, Mrs. Clifford's eye followed her daughter's. Then it fell as before. Elma looked up at

mother's bosom. Some minutes later, Mrs. Clifford w

hard at his wife's face, which told its own

y and she shrank from her husband's searching glance. She was a plump-faced and well-favoured British matron now, but once, many years before, as a slim young girl, she had been in love with somebody-somebody whom by superior parental wisdom she was

d asked, laying down his new

know you may crush her; I know you may kill her; but if you don't want to do that, I know she must marry him. Whether we wish it, or whether we don't, there's nothing

ke decidedly; he had never heard her speak with such firmness in his life before. It fairly took his breath away. He gazed at his

as acting right. "Elma's really in love with him; and I won't let Elma's life

ight hand drop clattering from his fingers. "If I hadn't heard you say it yourself, Louisa," he answered, with a gasp, "I

rd repeated. "Elma must marr

r. Mrs. Clifford brought up her cup of tea herself. Elma took it with gratitude, but still never dared to look her mother in the face. Mrs. Cliffo

more; the rustling of a dress; a retreating footstep. Somebody pushed an envelope stealthily under the door. Elma picked it up and examined it curiously. It bore a penny stamp, and the local postmark. It must have come then by the two o'clock delivery,

ll do you no harm. Resist it when it comes

ertain it was her mother had written that note. But she read it with tears, o

in any way. The talk between them was obtrusively commonplace. But all that day long, Elma noticed her mother was far tenderer to her than usual; and when she went up to bed Mrs