up to him, to put her arms about his neck, to ask him to let her help to free him from the coils that Winslow had wound about him.
She forced herself sternly to stop being sorry. One should not forgive weakness or love a weakling. . . . She was swept by a sense of desolation. She had hoped for so much and had found so little. It was dreadful to remember all that she had hoped. She felt as if the world had fallen about her, and that she walked alone amid the wreck of it.
When at last Carew left the room, and she came out from her hiding place, she felt her knees weak under her. She sank down in a chair. . . .
And after what seemed a long time, she heard Crispin's voice saying:
"Hildegarde, what's the matter? What has happened?"
"I thought you were never coming."
"I came, and you weren't here."
"I was here. Hidden in the window-seat."
"Hidden?"
"I was sitting in the window when Mr. Winslow came, and I didn't want to see him. So I covered myself with the curtains. And then father came, and—they talked."
Her voice dropped away into silence. "I can't tell you," she told him finally, "what they said. But it changes—everything. Crispin, I want to go back."
He did not understand. "Go back?"
"To Aunt Catherine and Aunt Olivia. I can't stay here any longer. I've got to—get away—"
