‘Sir,’ she said, laying her hand on his book in her eagerness,—­’excuse me,—­Is this story that Mrs. Coles tells, true?’

In utter astonishment, gentle, wondering, benignant, the Doctor looked up at her.

’Hazel?  What is the matter?  Sit down, my dear, if you want to speak to me.’

She moved a few steps off, as if afraid of being held.  ’Is this true, Dr. Maryland, that she says about me——­and——­Mr. Rollo?’ The words half choked her, but she got them out.  ’The will?—­don’t you know?—­you must know!  Is it true?’

’What are you talking of, Hazel?  Sit down, my dear.  Prudentia?  What has she been talking to you about?  I hope—­’

‘My father’s will,—­does she know?’ Hazel repeated.

’Your father’s will?—­Prudentia?—­Has she been talking to you of that!  My dear, that was not necessary.  It was not needful that you should hear anything about it; not now.  I am sorry.  Prudentia must have forgotten herself!’ Dr. Maryland looked seriously disturbed.

‘You do not tell me!’ cried the girl.  ’Dr. Maryland, is it true, what she says?’

’I do not know what she has said, my dear.  But you need not be troubled about it.  It was a kind will, and I think on the whole a wise one,—­guarded on every side.  What has Prudentia said to you, Hazel?’ The Doctor spoke with grave authority now.

To which Miss Kennedy replied characteristically.  She had caught up the words as he went on,—­’not needful she should know,’—­’she need not be troubled,’—­then it was true!  Everybody knew it except herself; everybody was doubtless also wondering how it felt!  For a second she looked straight into her old friend’s face, trying vainly to find a negative there, and then without a word she was off.  And if Lewis had been called upon to bear witness, he might have said that his young mistress flew into the saddle, and then flew home.

CHAPTER XXXI.

WHOSE WILL?

A great new sorrow is a many-cornered thing; having its sharp points that sting, and its jagged points that wound; with others so dull and heavy and immoveable that one is ready to wish they could pierce through and make an end.  And it is quite impossible to tell beforehand on which of them we may happen to strike first.

Wych Hazel tried them all on her way home; but when that last one came, it stayed; and through all the sharpness of the others—­through anger and mortification and the keen sense of injury, and the fiery rebellion against control—­the moveless weight upon her breast was worse than all.  What was it?  What laid it there?  Not much to look at.  A poor little plant, cut down and fallen—­that was all.  Nobody knew when it started, and no one could say that it would ever bloom:  it had been doubtful and shy of its own existence, and she herself had never guessed it was there, till suddenly its fragrance was all around.  And even now, wilted and under foot, it was sweeter than everything else; sweeter than even its own self had ever been before.  Yes; of all the bitter truths she had heard that day, this that she said to herself was the one supreme:  Gyda’s words of expectation would never be made good.