"Damn!” said the young lady, furiously.

And at the voice, the word, the figure, Mrs. Roughsedge stood arrested and open-mouthed, her old woman’s bonnet slipping back a little on her gray curls.

The young woman was Fanny Merton.  She had evidently just arrived, and was in search of Diana.  Mrs. Roughsedge thought a moment, and then turned and sadly walked home again.  No good interfering now!  Poor Diana would have to tackle the situation for herself.

* * * * *

Diana and Mrs. Colwood were on the lawn, surreptitiously at work on clothes for the child in the spinal jacket, who was soon going away to a convalescent home, and had to be rigged out.  The grass was strewn with pieces of printed cotton and flannel, with books and work-baskets.  But they were not sitting where Ferrier had looked his last upon the world three weeks before.  There, under the tall limes, across the lawn, on that sad and sacred spot, Diana meant in the autumn to plant a group of cypresses (the tree of mourning) “for remembrance.”

“Fanny!” cried Diana, in amazement, rising from her chair.

At her cousin’s voice, Fanny halted, a few yards away.

“Well,” she said, defiantly, “of course I know you didn’t expect to see me!”

Diana had grown very pale.  Muriel saw a shiver run through her—­the shiver of the victim brought once more into the presence of the torturer.

“I thought you were in London,” she stammered, moving forward and holding out her hand mechanically.  “Please come and sit down.”  She cleared a chair of the miscellaneous needlework upon it.

“I want to speak to you very particularly,” said Fanny.  “And it’s private!” She looked at Mrs. Colwood, with whom she had exchanged a frosty greeting.  Diana made a little imploring sign, and Muriel—­unwillingly—­moved away toward the house.

“Well, I don’t suppose you want to have anything to do with me,” said Fanny, after a moment, in a sulky voice.  “But, after all, you’re mother’s niece.  I’m in a pretty tight fix, and it mightn’t be very pleasant for you if things came to the worst.”

She had thrown off her hat, and was patting and pulling the numerous puffs and bandeaux, in which her hair was arranged, with a nervous hand.  Diana was aghast at her appearance.  The dirty finery of her dress had sunk many degrees in the scale of decency and refinement since February.  Her staring brunette color had grown patchy and unhealthy, her eyes had a furtive audacity, her lips a coarseness, which might have been always there; but in the winter, youth and high spirits had to some extent disguised them.

“Aren’t you soon going home?” asked Diana, looking at her with a troubled brow.

“No, I’m—­I’m engaged.  I thought you might have known that!” The girl turned fiercely upon her.

“No—­I hadn’t heard—­”

“Well, I don’t know where you live all your time!” said Fanny, impatiently.  “There’s heaps of people at Dunscombe know that I’ve been engaged to Fred Birch for three months.  I wasn’t going to write to you, of course, because I—­well!—­I knew you thought I’d been rough on you—­about that—­you know.”