“I know what has kept you awake,” said Rachael, “but do not fear.  It was but a passing madness—­God smite those guinea fowl!  I have lived the life of a nun, and it is an unnatural life for a young woman.  Yesterday I learned that I have not the temperament of the scholar, the recluse—­that is all.  I should have guessed it sooner—­then I should not have been fascinated by this brilliant Scot.  It was my mind that flew eagerly to companionship—­that was all.  The hours were pleasant.  I would not regret them but for the deep uneasiness they have caused you.  To-day I shall enter the world again.  There are many clever and accomplished young men on St. Kitts.  I will meet and talk to them all.  We will entertain them here.  There is a ball at Government House to-night, another at Mistress Irwin’s on Wednesday week.  I promise you that I will be as gay and as universal as a girl in her first season, and this man shall see no more of me than any other man.”

Her mother watched her keenly as she delivered her long tirade.  Her face was deeply flushed.  The arm that held the candle was tense, and her hair fell about her splendid form like a cloud of light.  Had Hamilton seen anything so fair in Europe?  What part would he play in this scheme of catholicity?

“You will meet this man if you go abroad,” she replied.  “Better stay here and forbid him the gates.”

“And think about him till I leap on my horse and ride to meet him?  A fevered imagination will make a god of a Tom Noddy.  If I see him daily—­with others—­he will seem as commonplace as all men.”

Mary Fawcett did not speak for some moments.  Then she said:  “Hark ye, Rachael.  I interfered once and brought such damnable misery upon you that I dare not—­almost—­(she remembered her note to Dr. Hamilton) interfere again.  This time you shall use your own judgement, something you have taught me to respect.  Whatever the result, I will be to the end what I always have been, the best friend you have.  You are very strong.  You have had an awful experience, and it has made a woman of thirty of you.  You are no silly little fool, rushing blindly into the arms of the first man whose eyes are black enough.  You have been brought up to look upon light women with horror.  In your darkest days you never sought to console yourself as weaker women do.  Therefore, in spite of what I saw in both your faces yesterday, I hope.”

“Yes—­and give yourself no more uneasiness.  Could I look upon the love of man with favour?  Not unless I were to be born again, and my memory as dead as my body.”