after excessive mental irritation; and, eager as she was (on more accounts than one) to go to the inn herself, she had been compelled, in Sir Patrick’s absence, to commit the pursuit of Blanche to her own maid, in whose age and good sense she could place every confidence.  The woman seeing the state of the weather—­had thoughtfully brought a box with her, containing a change of wearing apparel.  In offering it to Blanche, she added, with all due respect, that she had full powers from her mistress to go on, if necessary, to the shooting-cottage, and to place the matter in Sir Patrick’s hands.  This said, she left it to her young lady to decide for herself, whether she would return to Windygates, under present circumstances, or not.

Blanche took the box from the woman’s hands, and joined Anne in the bedroom, to dress herself for the drive home.

“I am going back to a good scolding,” she said.  “But a scolding is no novelty in my experience of Lady Lundie.  I’m not uneasy about that, Anne—­I’m uneasy about you.  Can I be sure of one thing—­do you stay here for the present?”

The worst that could happen at the inn had happened.  Nothing was to be gained now—­and every thing might be lost—­by leaving the place at which Geoffrey had promised to write to her.  Anne answered that she proposed remaining at the inn for the present.

“You promise to write to me?”

“Yes.”

“If there is any thing I can do for you—?”

“There is nothing, my love.”

“There may be.  If you want to see me, we can meet at Windygates without being discovered.  Come at luncheon-time—­go around by the shrubbery—­and step in at the library window.  You know as well as I do there is nobody in the library at that hour.  Don’t say it’s impossible—­you don’t know what may happen.  I shall wait ten minutes every day on the chance of seeing you.  That’s settled—­and it’s settled that you write.  Before I go, darling, is there any thing else we can think of for the future?”

At those words Anne suddenly shook off the depression that weighed on her.  She caught Blanche in her arms, she held Blanche to her bosom with a fierce energy.  “Will you always be to me, in the future, what you are now?” she asked, abruptly.  “Or is the time coming when you will hate me?” She prevented any reply by a kiss—­and pushed Blanche toward the door.  “We have had a happy time together in the years that are gone,” she said, with a farewell wave of her hand.  “Thank God for that!  And never mind the rest.”

She threw open the bedroom door, and called to the maid, in the sitting-room.  “Miss Lundie is waiting for you.”  Blanche pressed her hand, and left her.

Anne waited a while in the bedroom, listening to the sound made by the departure of the carriage from the inn door.  Little by little, the tramp of the horses and the noise of the rolling wheels lessened and lessened.  When the last faint sounds were lost in silence she stood for a moment thinking—­then, rousing on a sudden, hurried into the sitting-room, and rang the bell.