to her that she had lost him for good, that he could never come back to her after she had passed, that he must hate her too much.  She supposed that, in acting as he did, he was aware of all the circumstances of her marriage, and could find no excuses for her.  She did not even know where he was, and, in her ignorance of the uses of private detectives and advertisements, had no idea how to find out.  And so she suffered in silence, and only saw him in her dreams.

She still stopped at the vicarage with Pigott; nor had there as yet been any talk of her returning to the Abbey House.  Indeed, she had not seen her father since the day of her marriage.  But, now that she had recovered, she felt that something must be done about it.  Wondering what it should be, she one afternoon walked to the churchyard, where she had not been since her illness, and, once there, made her way naturally to her mother’s grave.  She was moving very quietly, and had almost reached the tree under which Hilda Caresfoot lay, when she became aware that there was already somebody kneeling by the grave, with his head rested against the marble cross.

It was her father.  Her shadow falling upon him, he turned and saw her, and they stood looking at each other.  She was shocked at the dreadful alteration in his face.  It was now that of an old man, nearly worn out with suffering.  He put his hand before his eyes, and said,

“Angela, how can I face you, least of all here?”

For a moment the memory of her bitter wrongs swelled in her heart, for she now to a great extent understood what her father’s part in the plot had been, and she regarded him in silence.

“Father,” she said, presently, “I have been in the hands of God, and not in yours, and though you have helped to ruin my life, and have very nearly driven me into a madhouse, I can still say, let the past be the past.  But why do you look so wretched?  You should look happy; you have got the land—­my price, you know,” and she laughed a little bitterly.

“Why do I look wretched?  Because I am given over to a curse that you cannot understand, and I am not alone.  Where are those who plotted against you?  George dead, Bellamy gone, Lady Bellamy paralysed hand and foot, and myself—­although I did not plot, I only let them be—­ accursed.  But, if you can forget the past, why do you not come back to my house?  Of course I cannot force you; you are free and rich, and can suit yourself.”

“I will come for a time if you wish—­if I can bring Pigott with me.”

“You may bring twenty Pigotts, for all I care—­so long as you will pay for their board,” he added, with a touch of his old miserliness.  “But what do you mean ’for a time’?”

“I do not think I shall stop here long; I think that I am going into a sisterhood.”

“Oh! well, you are your own mistress, and must do as you choose.”

“Then I will come to-morrow,” and they parted.