“Come on, Honora,” said Hugh, “cut in.”  His tone was of what may be termed a rough good nature.  She had not seen him alone since his return, but he had seemed distinctly desirous that she should enjoy the festivities he had provided.  And not to yield would have been to betray herself.

The game, with its intervals of hilarity, was inaugurated in the library, and by midnight it showed no signs of abating.  At this hour the original four occupied the table for the second time, and endurance has its limits.  The atmosphere of Liberty Hall that prevailed made Honora’s retirement easier.

“I’m sure you won’t mind if I go to bed,” she said.  “I’ve been so used to the routine of—­of the chickens.”  She smiled.  “And I’ve spent the day in the open air.”

“Certainly, my dear,” said Mrs. Kame; “I know exactly how one feels in the country.  I’m sure it’s dreadfully late.  We’ll have one more rubber, and then stop.”

“Oh, don’t stop,” replied Honora; “please play as long as you like.”

They didn’t stop—­at least after one more rubber.  Honora, as she lay in the darkness, looking through the open square of her window at the silver stars, heard their voiced and their laughter floating up at intervals from below, and the little clock on her mantel had struck the hour of three when the scraping of chairs announced the breaking up of the party.  And even after that an unconscionable period elapsed, beguiled, undoubtedly, by anecdotes; spells of silence—­when she thought they had gone—­ending in more laughter.  Finally there was a crash of breaking glass, a climax of uproarious mirth, and all was still. . .

She could not have slept much, but the birds were singing when she finally awoke, the sunlight pouring into her window:  And the hands of her clock pointed to half-past seven when she rang her bell.  It was a relief to breakfast alone, or at least to sip her coffee in solitude.  And the dew was still on the grass as she crossed the wide lawn and made her way around the lake to the path that entered the woods at its farther end.  She was not tired, yet she would have liked to have lain down under the green panoply of the forest, where the wild flowers shyly raised sweet faces to be kissed, and lose herself in the forgetfulness of an eternal sleep; never to go back again to an Eden contaminated.  But when she lingered the melody of a thrush pierced her through and through.  At last she turned and reluctantly retraced her steps, as one whose hour of reprieve has expired.

If Mrs. Rindge had a girlish air when fully arrayed for the day, she looked younger and more angular still in that article of attire known as a dressing gown.  And her eyes, Honora remarked, were peculiarly bright:  glittering, perhaps, would better express the impression they gave; as though one got a glimpse through them of an inward consuming fire.  Her laughter rang shrill and clear as Honora entered the hall by the