“Have you ever seen her drive a nail, boy?”

“No, but I am sure she will do it—and better than any beginner you’ve ever seen!”

“Well, well, lad! we’ll see! we’ll see! She’s welcome anyhow to come and have her try. But it makes me laugh just to think of those doll hands with a great hoof in them!”

“They are little hands—she’s little herself! But they aren’t doll hands, grandfather. You should have seen her box little Miss Vixen’s ear for making a face at me!”

“Well, bring her whenever you like, lad,” said Simon.

It was moonlight by the time Richard drew near to Mortgrange. Near the gate, a few yards away inside seated on a stone, he saw the form of a woman. At first he thought of Barbara, but almost immediately he knew there was something different about the figure off in the dark. She sat in a helpless, hopeless attitude, with her head in her hands.

Putting his key in the lock made a sharp little noise. The figure started up, her face gleaming white in the moon, but dropped again on her stone, unable to stand. Richard could not take his eyes off her. While closing the gate he dared not turn his back to her. She sat motionless as before, her head in her hands, her elbows on her knees. He stood for a moment staring and trembling, then, with an effort of the will that approached agony, went toward her. As he drew nearer, he began to feel as if he had once known her. He must have seen her in London somewhere, he thought. But why was her shadow sitting there, a lonely hostless guest of the night?

He went nearer. The form remained motionless. Something reminded him of Alice Manson.

He laid his hand on the figure, but she moved not an inch. All at once he was sure it was Alice.

“Alice!” he cried. “Good God—sitting in the cold night!”

She made no answer.

“What can I do for you?” he said.

“Nothing,” she answered in a low voice that might well have been from a ghost. “Leave me,” she added, as with the last entreaty of despair.

“You are in trouble, Alice!” he persisted. “Why are you so far from home? Where’s Arthur?”

“What right do you have to question me?” she returned, almost fiercely.

“None but that I am your brother’s friend.”

“Friend!” she echoed in a faint, faraway voice.

“You forget, Alice, that I did all I could to be your friend too, and you would not let me!”

She neither spoke nor moved. Her stillness seemed to say, “And I won’t now.”

“Where are you going?” he asked after a hopeless pause.

“Nowhere.”

“Why did you leave London?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“I think you will tell me.”

“I will not.”

“You know I would do anything for you!”

“I daresay!”