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stable yard that lay quiet, with no thing stirring but doves, busy about the flagstones. Beyond the low range of stable buildings, a well-kept garden, and beyond that again, the moor, s unli t and smiling this morning. Was it along that little winding country road that she had come, drenched and exhausted—how many nights ago?
    Don’t think about that. Don’t think about Thomas; or the vicar’s suspicions. Let it come naturally, she told herself. “Marianne,” she moved, now, to the big looking glass above the dressing table. “Marianne?” How strange to be seeing oneself for the first time. Dark hair, curling in wild confusion around a pointed little face—too thin, surely, and the violet eyes too large over dark shadows. “But how do I know that?” Instinctively, she picked up the comb and began coaxing the curls into place.
    “You’re better, miss.” Gibbs’s voice startled her. “You shouldn’t be up though, not before the girl lights the fire. Back into bed with you, at once.” And then, as Marianne complied: “Mrs. Mauleverer sent me to see how you are. She had one of her bad nights again: been awake since goodness knows when, poor lamb. She will be glad to hear you’re better. But—have you remembered anything, miss? It’s the first thing she’ll ask me.”
    “Nothing.” Marianne shivered a little in the cold bed. “Except how I do my hair, and what’s the use of that?”
    Dr. Barton, when he came, pronounced her perfectly well enough to get up. As for her memory, he shook his head: “I had hoped to find it restored. As it is, we can but wait and see. In the meantime, don’t worry, it will do no good; may do harm.”
    “ But how can I help worrying. Why should I stay and be a burden to Mrs. Mauleverer?”
    “Burden? My dear young lady, you’re not a burden, you’re a crowning mercy. I’d been anxious about her—wondering whether to write to Mr. Mauleverer. Now, with you for company, she should go on sw immingly . You’ll earn your keep; don’t worry.”
    When he had gone, Gibbs insisted on helping her dress. “Anyone can see you’re used to being waited on. I don’t know what you were doing gallivanting about the country all on your own but for that hell-brat.”
    “Thomas? Is he a hell-brat?” Strange to have thought so little of him.
    “Martha don’t think so, but if ever there was a spoiled, neglected, ill-conditioned little ... Here, let me button your cuffs for you.”
    “It’s a f unny thing”—she held out her wrist obediently—“but these don’t feel like my clothes. I thought the same thing yesterday when Martha was unpacking them. And yet I remember how my hair should be done. I don’t understand it.”
    “Then don’t fret about it,” said Gibbs firmly. “But they’re your clothes right enough, for they are every stitch the same as what you had on when Mrs. Mauleverer brought you home. And they fit you well enough, too, except that you’ve lost some weight, which is hardly surprising. But you’ll soon pick up now, and get some color in your cheeks. Not but what the pallor and the dark circles are becoming to you, but if you ask me, you’re used to have a good high color. Whatever else you may be, I think you country bred, not one of those lackadaisical town misses.”
    “Do you? That’s strange; I remember thinking the same thing myself.” But this was a dangerous memory, one from the time of the terror. It was good to be interrupted by Mrs. Mauleverer who now tapped at the door to ask after the invalid and exclaim with pleasure on finding her up and dressed.
    “Do you think you are strong enough to come downstairs and eat luncheon with me? I shall be so glad to have company.”
    “But—should I? You know nothing about me. Think”—she made herself say it—“think what the vicar said.”
    “Mr. Emsworth? I hope I am not to be guided by his ridiculous notions. No, no, Miss Lamb, you are my guest, and must behave as such.”
    “But I am not