The books he had lent her—­these she made ready to return this morning.  Other things, also, trifles in themselves but until now so freighted with significance.  Then his letters and notes, how many, how many they were!  Thus ever about her rooms she moved on this mournful occupation until the last thing had been disposed of as either to be sent back or to be destroyed.

And then while Isabel waited for breakfast to be announced, always she was realizing how familiar seemed Rowan’s terrible confession, already lying far from her across the fields of memory—­with a path worn deep between it and herself as though she had been traversing the distance for years; so old can sorrow grow during a little sleep.  When she went down they were seated as she had left them the evening before, grandmother, aunt, cousin; and they looked up with the same pride and fondness.  But affection has so different a quality in the morning.  Then the full soundless rides which come in at nightfall have receded; and in their stead is the glittering beach with thin waves that give no rest to the ear or to the shore—­thin noisy edge of the deeps of the soul.

This fresh morning mood now ruled them; no such wholesome relief had come to her.  So that their laughter and high spirits jarred upon her strangely.  She had said to herself upon leaving them the evening before that never again could they be the same to her or she the same to them.  But then she had expected to return isolated by incommunicable happiness; now she had returned isolated by incommunicable grief.  Nevertheless she glided Into her seat with feigned cheerfulness, taking a natural part in their conversation; and she rose at last, smiling with the rest.

But she immediately quitted the house, eager to be out of doors surrounded by things that she loved but that could not observe her or question her in return—­alone with things that know not evil.

These were the last days of May.  The rush of Summer had already carried it far northward over the boundaries of Spring, and on this Sunday morning it filled the grounds of Isabel’s home with early warmth.  Quickened by the heat, summoned by the blue, drenched with showers and dews, all things which have been made repositories of the great presence of Life were engaged in realizing the utmost that it meant to them.

It was in the midst of this splendor of light and air, fragrance, colors, shapes, movements, melodies and joys that Isabel, the loftiest receptacle of life among them all, soon sat in a secluded spot, motionless and listless with her unstanched and desperate wound.  Everything seemed happy but herself; the very brilliancy of the day only deepened the shadow under which she brooded.  As she had slipped away from the house, she would soon have escaped from the garden had there been any further retreat.

It was not necessary long to wait for one.  Borne across the brown roofs and red chimneys of the town and exploding in the crystal air above her head like balls of mellow music, came the sounds of the first church bells, the bells of Christ Church.