“But Yardley is left,” said the squire.  “I suppose he has power to act.”

“Perhaps,” she said, the moment’s animation passing.  “But it is Wilchester’s business—­not his.  He shirks his duty.”

“I notice you never have a good word for any of the Farringmore family,” said the squire quizzically.

She shook her head.  “They are all so selfish.  It’s the family failing, I’m afraid.”

“You don’t share it anyhow,” said Vera.

“Ah!  You don’t know me,” said Juliet.

They went for a long motor-ride when the meal was over, but at the end of it, it seemed to Vera that they had talked solely of her affairs throughout.  She knew Juliet’s quiet reticence of old and made no attempt to pierce it.  But, thinking it over later, it seemed to her that there was something more than her usual reserve behind it, and a vague sense of uneasiness awoke within her.  She wondered if Juliet were happy.

They had tea on their return, but Juliet would not stay any later.  She must be back, she said, to meet Dick and be sure that the supper was ready in good time.  So, regretfully, still with that inexplicable feeling of doubt upon her, Vera let her go.

Just at the last she detained her for a moment to say with an effort that was plainly no light one, “Juliet, don’t forget I am here if—­if you ever need a friend!”

And then Juliet surprised her by a sudden, close embrace and a low-spoken, “I shall never forget you—­or your goodness to me.”

But a second later she was gone, and Vera was left to wonder.

As for Juliet, she hastened away as one in a fever to escape, yet before she reached the end of the avenue her feet moved as if weighted with chains.

A mist was creeping up from the sea and through it there came the long call of a distant syren.  The waves were no longer roaring along the shore.  The sound of them came muffled and vague, and she knew that the storm had gone down.

There was something very desolate in that atmosphere of dimmed sight and muted sound.  It was barely sunset, but the chill of the dying year was in the air.  The thought came to her, suddenly and very poignantly, of that wonderful night of spring, when she had first wandered along the cliff with the scent of the gorse-bushes rising like incense all around her, when she had first heard that magic, flute-like call of youth and love.  A deep and passionate emotion filled and overfilled her heart with the memory.  As she went up the little path to the school-house, her face was wet with tears.

Dick had not returned, and she went into the little dining-room and busied herself with laying the cloth for supper.  Their only indoor servant—­a young village girl—­was out that evening, but she could hear Mrs. Rickett who often came up to help moving about the kitchen.  She did not feel in the mood for the good woman’s chatter and delayed going in her direction as long as possible.