the quaint old house, when it was levelled

Der that you recognised me." Eve glanced at her, struck

by her tone, trying to read her expression in the dim light, a shadow
of bewilderment passing over
her own face and for a moment lowering the brilliancy of her eyes. Then
she smiled again, dismissing her thought with a little laugh which
broke off abruptly. "One so soon forgets!" the other
added, with an intention in her voice, an involuntary betrayal which
she almost immediately regretted. "Forgets!" Eve caught

up the word eagerly, almost passionately, her voice falling into a
lower

key. "Forget! Forgive and forget!" repeated Mary quickly and
recklessly, letting
her eyes wander from her own clasped hands to Eve's bouquet of
delicate, scentless fritillaries, which lay neglected where it had
fallen on the floor between their feet. "How easy it sounds!--is
perhaps--and yet--I have not so much
to forget--or to be forgiven!" The last words were almost whispered,
but for Eve's imagination, poised on tiptoe like a hunted creature
blindly listening for the approach

of the Pursuer, they were full of suggestion, of denunciation. She
remembered
now, with a swiftly banished pang of jealousy,

that this girl had loved him. Her thought sped back to a summer evening
nearly a year ago, when it had seemed to her that she had surprised her
friend's
secret. "What do you mean, Mary?"
she demanded courageously. "What have I to be forgiven?

Don't despise me; don't, for Heaven's sake, don't

play with me! I am all in the dark!
Are you accusing me? Do you think because I say nothing that I have
forgotten--that I can forget? Is it something about--him?" Mary cast a
rapid glance at her. "Are you afraid of his name, then?" Eve dropped
her hands despairingly. "Ah, you do! You _are_
playing with me! About Philip

Rainham, then! For H