isn't like you, is it? You never go to meet trouble, do you?"

At that shrewd remark, Thirza put her hand on the hand which still
clasped her waist, and pressed it closer.

"Well, my dear," she said softly, "we must see what can be done."

Cyril Morland kissed her cheek. "I will bless you for ever," he said. "I
haven't got any people, you know, except my two sisters."

And something like tears started up on Thirza's eyelashes. They seemed
to her like the babes in the wood--those two!




IV

1

In the dining-room of her father's house in that old London Square
between East and West, Gratian Laird, in the outdoor garb of a nurse,
was writing a telegram: "Reverend Edward Pierson, Kestrel, Tintern,
Monmouthshire. George terribly ill. Please come if you can. Gratian."
Giving it to a maid, she took off her long coat and sat down for a
moment. She had been travelling all night, after a full day's work, and
had only just arrived, to find her husband between life and death.
She was very different from Noel; not quite so tall, but of a stronger
build; with dark chestnut-coloured hair, clear hazel eyes, and a broad
brow. The expression of her face was earnest, with a sort of constant