There was Brighton far away, sparkling in the dying light; nearer, Southwick showed amid woods, winding about the foot of the hills; in front Shoreham rose out of the massy trees of Leywood, the trees slanted down to the lawn and foliage and walls, made spots of white and dark green upon a background of blue sea; further to the right there was a sluggish silver river, the spine of the skeleton bridge, a spur of Lancing hill, and then mist, pale mist, pale grey mist.

“I cannot go home”, thought the girl, and acting in direct contradiction to her thoughts, she walked forward.  Her parasol—­where was it?  It was broken.  The sheep, how sweet and quiet they looked, and the clover, how deliciously it smelt....  This is Mr Austin’s farm, and how well kept it is.  There is the barn.  And Evy and Mary, when would they be married?  Not so soon as she, she was going to be married in a month.  In a month.  She repeated the words over to herself; she strove to collect her thoughts, and failing to do so, she walked on hurriedly, she almost ran as if in the motion to force out of sight the thoughts that for a moment threatened to define themselves in her mind.  Suddenly she stopped; there were some children playing by the farm gate.  They did not know that she was by, and she listened to their childish prattle unsuspected.  To listen was an infinite assuagement, one that was overpoweringly sweet, and for some moments she almost forgot.  But she woke from her ecstacy in deadly fear and great pain, for coming along the hedgerow the voice of a man was heard, and the children ran away.  And she ran too, like a terrified fawn, trembling in every limb, and sick with fear she sped across the meadows.  The front door was open; she heard her father calling.  To see him she felt would be more than she could bear; she must hide from his sight for ever, and dashing upstairs she double locked her door.

CHAPTER VII.

The sky was still flushed, there was light upon the sea, but the room was dim and quiet.  The room!  Kitty had seen it under all aspects, she had lived in it many years:  then why does she look with strained eyes?  Why does she shrink?  Nothing has been changed.  There is her little narrow bed, and her little bookcase full of novels and prayer-books; there is her work-basket by the fireplace, by the fireplace closed in with curtains that she herself embroidered; above her pillow there is a crucifix; there are photographs of the Miss Austins, and pictures of pretty children cut from the Christmas Numbers on the walls.  She starts at the sight of these familiar objects!  She trembles in the room which she thought of as a haven of refuge.  Why does she grasp the rail of the bed—­why?  She scarcely knows:  something that is at once remembrance and suspicion fills her mind.  Is this her room?

The thought ended.  She walked hurriedly to and fro, and as she passed the fuchsia in the window a blossom fell.