“There are some scars which can’t be hidden,” replied Miles quietly.

Sara smiled a little.  There was never any evading Herrick’s broad tolerance of human nature.

It was nearly an hour later when at last she took her way homewards, carrying in her heart, in spite of herself, something of the gentle serenity that seemed to be a part of the very atmosphere at Rose Cottage.

Outside, the calm and fragrance of a June evening awaited her.  Little, delicate, sweet-smelling airs floated over the tops of the hedges from the fields beyond, and now and then a few stray notes of a blackbird’s song stole out from a plantation near at hand, breaking off suddenly and dying down into drowsy, contented little cluckings and twitterings.

Across the bay the sun was dipping towards the horizon, flinging along the face of the waters great shafts of lambent gold and orange, that split into a thousand particles of shimmering light as the ripples caught them up and played with them, and finally tossed them back again to the sun from the shining curve of a wave’s sleek side.

It was all very tranquil and pleasant, and Sara strolled leisurely along, soothed into a half-waking dream by the peaceful influences of the moment.  Even the manifold perplexities and tangles of life seemed to recede and diminish in importance at the touch of old Mother Nature’s comforting hand.  After all, there was much, very much, that was beautiful and pleasant still left to enjoy.

It is generally at moments like these, when we are sinking into a placid quiescence of endurance, that Fate sees fit to prod us into a more active frame of mind.

In this particular instance destiny manifested itself in the unassuming form of Black Brady, who slid suddenly down from the roadside hedge, amid a crackling of branches and rattle of rubble, and appeared in front of Sara’s astonished eyes just as she was nearing home.

“Beg pardon, miss”—­Brady tugged at a forelock of curly black hair—­“I was just on me way to your place.”

“To Sunnyside?  Why, is Mrs. Brady ill again?” asked Sara kindly.

“No, miss, thank you, she’s doing nicely.”  He paused a moment as though at a loss how to continue.  Then he burst out:  “It’s about Miss Molly—­the doctor bein’ away and all.”

“About Miss Molly?” Sara felt a sudden clutch at her heart.  “What do you mean?  Quick, Brady, what is it?”

“Well, miss, I’ve just seed ’er go off ‘long o’ Mr. Kent in his big motor-car.  They took the London road, and”—­here Brady shuffled his feet with much embarrassment—­“seein’ as Mr. Kent’s a married man, I’ll be bound he’s up to no good wi’ Miss Molly.”

Sara could have stamped with vexation.  The little fool—­oh!  The utter little fool—­to go off joy-riding in an evening like that!  A break-down of any kind, with a consequent delay in returning, and all Monkshaven would be buzzing with the tale!