the shadow at the end of the long oaken refectory table, that at which
the monks had eaten, which still remained where it had stood for
hundreds of years, one of the fixtures of the house, and knew it for
that of Godfrey, Mr. Knight's son. Gliding towards him quietly she saw
that he was asleep and stopped to study him.

He was a beautiful boy, pale just now for he had recovered but
recently from some childish illness. His hair was dark and curling,
dark, too, were his eyes, though these she could not see, and the
lashes over them, while his hands were long and fine. He looked most
lonely and pathetic, there in the big oak chair that had so often
accommodated the portly forms of departed abbots, and her warm heart
went out towards him. Of course Isobel knew him, but not very well,
for he was a shy lad and her father had never encouraged intimacy
between the Abbey House and the Hall.

Somehow she had the idea that he was unhappy, for indeed he looked so
even in his sleep, though perhaps this was to be accounted for by a
paper of unfinished sums before him. Sympathy welled up in Isobel, who
remembered the oppressions of the last governess--her of the inkpot.
Sympathy, yes, and more than sympathy, for of a sudden she felt as she
had never felt before. She loved the little lad as though he were her
brother. A strange affinity for him came home to her, although she did
not define it thus; it was as if she knew that her spirit was intimate
with his, yes, and always had been and always would be intimate.

This subtle knowledge went through Isobel like fire and shook her. She
turned pale, her nostrils expanded, her large eyes opened and she
sighed. She did more indeed. Drawn by some over-mastering impulse she
drew near to Godfrey and kissed him gently on the forehead, then