She looked at him mutely, held by the spell of his eyes.

‘Well then,’ he finished, abruptly, ’there won’t be much left for one man to live for.  Good-night.’

He was gone, and she was left standing in the firelight, a small, bewildered creature.

‘What shall I do?’ she was saying to herself, ‘Oh, what ought I to do?’

She sank down on the floor, and hid her face against a chair.  Helplessly, she wished that Hester would come!—­someone wise and strong who would tell her what was right.  The thought of supplanting George, of learning to forget him, of letting somebody else take his place in her heart, was horrible—­even monstrous—­to her.  Yet she did not know how she would ever find the strength to make Farrell suffer.  His devotion appealed—­not to any answering passion in her—­there was none—­but to an innate lovingness, that made it a torment to her to refuse to love and be loved.  Her power of dream, of visualisation, shewed him to her alone and unhappy; when, perhaps, she might still—­without harm—­have been a help to him—­have shewn him her gratitude.  She felt herself wavering and retreating; seeking, as usual, the easiest path out of her great dilemma.  Must she either be disloyal to her George?—­her dead, her heroic George!—­or unkind to this living man, whose unselfish devotion had stood between her and despair?  After all, might it not still go on?  She could protect herself.  She was not afraid.

But she was afraid!  She was in truth held by the terror of her own weakness, and Farrell’s strength, as she lay crouching by the fire.

Outside the wind was rising.  Great clouds were coming up from the south-west.  The rain had begun.  Soon it was lashing the windows, and pouring from the eaves of the old farmhouse.

Nelly went back to her work; and the wind and rain grew wilder as the hours passed.  Just as she was thinking wearily of going to bed, there were sounds of wheels outside.

Bridget? so late!  Nelly had long since given her up.  What a night on which to face the drive from Windermere!  Poor horse!—­poor man!

Yes, it was certainly Bridget!  As Nelly half rose, she heard the harsh, deep voice upon the stairs.  A tall figure, heavily cloaked, entered.

‘My dear Bridget—­I’d quite given you up!’

‘No need,’ said Bridget coolly, as she allowed Nelly to kiss her cheek.  ’The afternoon train from Euston was a little late.  You can’t help that with all these soldiers about.’

‘Come and sit down by the fire.  Have you done all you wanted to do?’

‘Yes.’

Bridget sat down, after taking off her wet water-proof, and held a draggled hat to the blaze.  Nelly looking at her was struck by the fact that Bridget’s hair had grown very grey, and the lines in her face very deep.  What an extraordinary person Bridget was!  What had she been doing all this time?

But nothing could be got out of the traveller.  She sat by the fire for a while, and let Nelly get her a tray of food.  But she said very little, except to complain of the weather, and, once, to ask if the Farrells were at the cottage.