for a few moments after he had gone, erect, with her hands pressed over
her eyes, then walked towards the house with firm steps; but at the
verandah uncontrollable sobs were breaking in her throat; she turned and
fled into the plantation, and lying amongst the long grass wept
unreservedly.

Harry's mind was in a tumult; he tried in vain to compose his faculties,
to discover some reason for Miss Chris's action apart from the dreadful
possibility that she had really never cared for him. Now that he had it
from her own lips that she could be nothing to him, he refused to accept
the situation. There were barriers raised between them, he would beat
them down; there were mistakes, illusions, he would overcome them; he was
strong, he would conquer. Anything was possible but that she had lied to
him, but that her warm loving kisses were false and scheming. His heart
scouted that idea with a blind rage that impelled him to hit out in the
darkness. This spiritual fight tore the man of action, racked him limb
from limb. Oh! to have been able to settle it, bare-armed and abreast of
a living antagonist in the child's play of merely physical strife. He
found tears on his cheek and this weakness amazed him, but his thoughts
followed each other quickly, disconnectedly, like those of a drunken man;
he went home baffled, but clinging to hope with the tenacity of one who
feels that despair means death.

Next morning Harry found himself utterly miserable, but still trusting
that time would serve to restore Chris her natural cheerful temperament,
and bring home to her again the conviction that she really loved him, and
then all would be well.

At about half-past two that afternoon Dick Haddon, in his capacity of
faithful squire to the two lovers, visited the mine hot-foot, with news