But, to the girl walking over the marshland, the humanness of the things she heard gave to her the sense of nearness—­of being almost within sight and sound—­which Mount Dunstan himself had felt, when each day was filled with the result of her thought of the needs of the poor souls thrown by fate into his hands.  In these days, after listening to old Mrs. Welden’s anecdotes, through which she gathered the simpler truth of things, Betty was able to construct for herself a less Scriptural version of what she had heard.  She was glad—­glad in his sitting by a bedside and holding a hand which lay in his hot or cold, but always trusting to something which his strong body and strong soul gave without stint.  There would be no restraint there.  Yes, he was kind—­kind—­kind —­with the kindness a woman loves, and which she, of all women, loved most.  Sometimes she would sit upon some mound, and, while her eyes seemed to rest on the yellowing marsh and its birds and pools, they saw other things, and their colour grew deep and dark as the marsh water between the rushes.

The time was pressing when a change in her life must come.  She frequently asked herself if what she saw in Nigel Anstruthers’ face was the normal thinking of a sane man, which he himself could control.  There had been moments when she had seriously doubted it.  He was haggard, aging and restless.  Sometimes he—­always as if by chance—­followed her as she went from one room to another, and would seat himself and fix his miserable eyes upon her for so long a time that it seemed he must be unconscious of what he was doing.  Then he would appear suddenly to recollect himself and would start up with a muttered exclamation, and stalk out of the room.  He spent long hours riding or driving alone about the country or wandering wretchedly through the Park and gardens.  Once he went up to town, and, after a few days’ absence, came back looking more haggard than before, and wearing a hunted look in his eyes.  He had gone to see a physician, and, after having seen him, he had tried to lose himself in a plunge into deep and turbid enough waters; but he found that he had even lost the taste of high flavours, for which he had once had an epicurean palate.  The effort had ended in his being overpowered again by his horrors—­the horrors in which he found himself staring at that end of things when no pleasure had spice, no debauchery the sting of life, and men, such as he, stood upon the shore of time shuddering and naked souls, watching the great tide, bearing its treasures, recede forever, and leave them to the cold and hideous dark.  During one day of his stay in town he had seen Teresita, who had at first stared half frightened by the change she saw in him, and then had told him truths he could have wrung her neck for putting into words.

“You look an old man,” she said, with the foreign accent he had once found deliciously amusing, but which now seemed to add a sting.  “And somesing is eating you op.  You are mad in lofe with some beautiful one who will not look at you.  I haf seen it in mans before.  It is she who eats you op—­your evil thinkings of her.  It serve you right.  Your eyes look mad.”