I slept badly. The events that had happened, since my arrival in England,
had excited me I suppose. Now and then, in the wakeful hours of the
night, I thought of Cristel with some anxiety. Taking the Loger's
exaggerated language for what it was really worth, the poor girl (as I
was still inclined to fear) might have serious reason to regret that he
had ever entered her father's cottage.

At the breakfast table, my stepmother and I met again.

Mrs. Roylake--in an exquisite morning dress; with her smile in perfect
order--informed me that she was dying with curiosity. She had heard, from
the servants, that I had not returned to the house until past ten o'clock
on the previous night; and she was absolutely bewildered by the
discovery. What could her dear Gerard have been doing, out in the dark by
himself, for all that time?

"For some part of the time," I answered, "I was catching moths in
Fordwitch Wood."

"What an extraordinary occupation for a young man! Well? And what did you
do after that?"

"I walked on through the wood, and renewed my old associations with the
river and the mill."

Mrs. Roylake's fascinating smile disappeared when I mentioned the mill.
She suddenly became a cold lady--I might even say a stiff lady.

"I can't congratulate you on the first visit you have paid in our
neighborhood," she said. "Of course that bold girl contrived to attract