a reading of it occasionally; and every time she read it she seemed to understand it better.  It was a mystery to her how she had been so intensely stupid as not to understand it at first.  And when she found a copy of her own answer to it among her papers—­one she had thrown aside on account of a big blot—­she wondered if it was possible she had sent such a thing, and tears of shame and regret stood in her eyes.  “How frightfully blind I was!” she said to herself.  But there was no help for it:  the thing was done, and could not be undone.  She had grown in wisdom since then, but most people reach wisdom through ignorance and folly.

In these circumstances she found Miss Adamson a very valuable friend.  Miss Adamson had never shared Lady Arthur’s low estimate of Mr. Eildon:  she liked his sweet, unworldly nature, and she had a regard for him as having aims both lower and higher than a “career.”  That he should love Miss Garscube seemed to her natural and good, and that happiness might be possible even to a duke’s grandson on such a pittance as two thousand pounds a year was an article of her belief:  she pitied people who go through life sacrificing the substance for the shadow.  Yes, Miss Garscube could speak of Mr. Eildon to her friend and teacher, and be sure of some remark that gave her comfort.

V.

A year sped round again, and they heard of Mr. Eildon being in Scotland at the shooting, and as he was not very far off, they expected to see him any time.  But it was getting to the end of September, and he had paid no visit, when one day, as the ladies were sitting at luncheon, he came in, looking very white and agitated.  They were all startled:  Miss Garscube grew white also, and felt herself trembling.  Lady Arthur rose hurriedly and said, “What is it, George? what’s the matter?”

“A strange thing has happened,” he said.  “I only heard of it a few minutes ago:  a man rode after me with the telegram.  My cousin George—­Lord Eildon—­has fallen down a crevasse in the Alps and been killed.  Only a week ago I parted with him full of life and spirit, and I loved him as if he had been my brother;” and he bent his head to hide tears.

They were all silent for some moments:  then in a low voice Lady Arthur said, “I am sorry for his father.”

“I am sorry for them all,” George said.  “It is terrible;” then after a little he said, “You’ll excuse my leaving you:  I am going to Eildon at once:  I may be of some service to them.  I don’t know how Frank will be able to bear this.”

After he had gone away Alice felt how thoroughly she was nothing to him now:  there had been no sign in his manner that he had ever thought of her at all, more than of any other ordinary acquaintance.  If he had only looked to her for the least sympathy!  But he had not.  “If he only knew how well I understand him now!” she thought.