‘No one can help me now,’ said the girl sullenly.

Alice did not speak at once, but at the end of a long silence she said: 

‘Does Fred Scully love you no more?’

’I do not know whether he does or not; nor does it matter much.  He’s not in Ireland.  He’s far away by this time.’

‘Where is he?’

’He’s gone to Australia.  He wrote to me about two months ago to say that all had been decided in a few hours, and that he was to sail next morning.  He’s gone out with some racehorses, and expects to win a lot of money.  He’ll be back again in a year.’

‘A year isn’t long to wait; you’ll see him when he comes back.’

’I don’t think I should care to see him again.  Oh, you were right, Alice, to warn me against him.  I was foolish not to listen to you, but it was too late even then.’

Alice trembled; she had already guessed the truth, but hoping when she knew all hope was vain, she said: 

‘You had better tell me, May; you know I am to be trusted.’

‘Can’t you guess it?’

The conversation fell, and the girls sat staring into the depths of the wood.  Involuntarily their eyes followed a small bird that ran up branch after branch of a beech-tree, pecking as it went.  It seemed like a toy mouse, so quick and unvarying were its movements.  At last May said, and very dolorously: 

’Alice, I thought you were kinder; haven’t you a word of pity?  Why tell you, why ask me to tell you?  Oh! what a fool I was!’

’Oh! no, no, May, you did right to tell me.  I am more sorry for you than words can express, and I didn’t speak because I was trying to think of some way of helping you.’

’Oh! there’s no—­no way of helping me, dear.  There’s nothing for me to do but to die.’  And now giving way utterly, the girl buried her face in her hands and sobbed until it seemed that she would choke in thick grief.

’Oh!  May, May dear, you mustn’t cry like that:  if anyone were to come by, what would they think?’

’What does it matter?  Everyone will know sooner or later—­I wish I were dead—­dead and out of sight for ever of this miserable world.’

‘No, May,’ said Alice, thinking instinctively of the child, ’you mustn’t die.  Your trial is a terrible one, but people before now have got over worse.  I am trying to think what can be done.’

Then May raised her weeping face, and there was a light of hope in her eyes.  She clasped Alice’s hand.  Neither spoke.  The little brown bird pursued his way up and down the branches of the beech; beyond it lay the sky, and the girls, tense with little sufferings, yearned into this vision of beautiful peace.

At last Alice said:  ’Did you tell Mr. Scully of the trouble?  Does he know—­’

’He was away, and I didn’t like to write it to him; his departure for Australia took me quite by surprise.’

‘Have you told your mother?’