"You 're the beginning," said Nicolas, quietly, "and you 're the endand all the rest of it. Nothing has happened to me except you."

Joy remembered what her mother had told her long ago about men. Perhaps she ought to take her hand away from Nicolas, but she did not want to. She felt a great tenderness for Nicolas. It was not exactly love, but a very little would have turned it into love.

"You see," Nicolas explained, "you were too young before I went to India, and when I came back, I suppose you were too unhappy; but I have felt just the same always. Do you remember what I asked you to promise me in the Doone Valley?" Joy nodded.

"You might have known," she said, "that I should n't, anyhow. But I remember promising."

"Of course your mother was perfectly right," Nicolas said "to stop my kissing you, I mean; but she would n't be right to stop it now, if you liked me enough to let me, Joy."

"Enough," said Joy, thoughtfully, "to let you kiss me. Why, of course I do, Nicolas."

But Nicolas did not take any advantage of this lightly given favor; he

only put his hand on Joy's shoulder and drew her round so that she was looking straight at him.

"Enough to marry me," asked Nicolas, firmly. "I could marry you now. I have enough for us to live on, and of course, as I'm the eldest son, I shall eventually have Pallant. We could take a furnished house at Aldershot until I have finished my course, if you don't mind furnished houses.

"I know it's rather a sacrifice to ask of any woman-that Indian business, I mean. Sooner or later you have to choose between leaving your husband or your kids; but I know how you love children. I hope I should n't be selfish about you, Joy."

And then he saw that Joy was horrified. She was shaking all over under his hand. Cold perspiration broke out on her forehead. It had all swept over her again, that premature agony of the tortured child. Her mind felt frantic, as if the child's screams still lingered in it, as if death had done nothing to relieve her.

No, she could n't face that again. She could n't risk having a child, not even for Nicolas-another child that might be put under the harrow like that and cry out to her to release it.

And when she met Nicolas's eyes,

the horror went straight through him. He thought it was horror of himself. He sprang to his feet.

"Joy," he cried thickly, "d' you feel like that?"

Joy could not speak; she only nodded, with shaking lips. She wished he had n't got up and gone away from her. She had a hunger for his protection and the solid, kindly comfort of his touch upon her shoulder; and yet she had no right to take that comfort.

Nicolas looked horrified, too, and he looked angry, as if the horror was unfair to him, after his great content.

"I beg your pardon," he said fiercely; "I've made the most abject mistake. I thought you said I did n't bother you, but I see I do. Never mind; I'll never, as long as I live, touch you again. Don't be afraid. I see exactly what you feel. You don't like saying 'No' to me, because I 'm such an old friend, but you 'd hate me to be anything more to you. I was right, after all, to keep away from you after last time, and a fool to come back."

"I could n't face it," whispered Joy, -her cheeks had become a curious gray-white, and she was still trembling,-"not yet, Nicolas."

"You'll never have to face it," said Nicolas, bitterly, "either now or at any other time. Good-by."

He hurried away from the little churchyard and out of her sight down the long hill. Joy shut her eyes for a few moments after he had gone. The sunlight on the late September flowers frightened and hurt her. This had never happened to her before. She had been so quiet and happy all the year. She had n't had to think of children, little children that might look up at her with hurrying, questioning eyes-eyes which she could not

satisfy; children who might cry out at her, "O Joy, I don't like pain; take it away!" And she could n't take it away.

If only Nicolas had known that it was n't of him at all that she was thinking, if he could have heard that dreadful little tune pursuing her, he would have understood the horror, and he would have taken her in his arms and taught her how horror can be healed. But Nicolas had understood nothing but that his love was dreadful to the only person in the world whom he could ever love.

VII

People at places like Lynton do not have nervous breakdowns, but sometimes they feel the need of going away for a little change. A little change, it was decided, was what Joy wanted after she had refused Nicolas, and it was very convenient that Julia Ransome, far away in a place called Surrey, should have had twins and want Joy to come and help her look after them.

The twins were expansive, voracious creatures requiring a great deal of concentration. Nothing went wrong with them, but they had a great many wants, and all of them were compulsory. Joy became absorbed in the twins. Weeks slipped into months, and she still bore with Surrey.

Julia and Owen had a fine and flowered place, very dry and light. Their large, new, pompous house had every convenience and no significance. There were excellent meals and beds in it, and expensively dressed neighbors streamed hilariously through the house and out into the neat, flat garden to play games. There was seldom an hour out of the day in which there was not a meal or a game going on.

Julia and Owen entertained a great deal without taking much trouble about it. There was always enough of everything, and when they said they must have more, they only meant that they had to order it. There were no contrivances and no sacrifices in their household life; after Joy came, even the question of the twins, which had weighed slightly on Julia's mind, despite the presence of an excellent old nurse, immediately lifted. She was free now to be more constantly where Owen wanted.

It sometimes flashed through Joy's mind that marriage had changed Julia. The Pennants had never spent money as if it were water, or time as if it were as irresponsible as air. They had duties and difficulties, and on the whole they profited by both these limitations. With all that was going on around her, Joy was aware of a curious lack of profit.

Joy wondered if Julia felt it, too, and missed the vast expanses of the moors, where one could walk all day long and meet nothing but one's own thoughts, and where life itself took all the time there was. In the old days she could easily have asked Julia which life she preferred, but now she could n't ask her. Marriage had Marriage had flowed around Julia like a tidal sea,

and cut her off from the mainland of girlhood. She was radiantly happy, but she was not within reach, and her eyes wore a gay and guarded expression, as if what she enjoyed had in it a hint of danger.

Sudden impatiences and irritations broke through her happiness. It was not when her own will was crossed that Joy noticed these uncharacteristic flurries. Julia had submerged her personal will; but if by any chance Owen could not have what he wanted, Julia, whose temper had always been placid and impregnable, flamed up into sudden vehemence. She wanted so much to make Owen happy that it seemed as if something was at stake if she did not succeed. Beneath the easy flow of her life there were secret snags which snags which broke into a curious violence.

But if marriage had changed Julia, it had done nothing at all to Owen Ransome; he was gayer than Joy remembered him, but he had probably not been gayer then only because she was sad. Even now he could easily suppress it, and about his gaiety there was never any hardness or ruthlessness, as there sometimes was about Julia's.

He was a charming host, eager about the amusements of his guests and never seeking to emphasize his

own. Owen loved his twins. Joy found him oftener in the nursery than Julia. He confided to her that he felt it terribly absurd to make such a sweep into fatherhood, but he always knew how much they weighed and which was cutting his first tooth.

Owen's manner to Joy was perfect. It was as if he had found in her something specially delightful which would please his wife; it was almost as if he felt the need of propitiating Julia. Yet what need had he to propitiate his happy wife? She had everything in the world she wanted, a husband she adored, health like fine steel, children that would have won any baby prize if they had not been born in a sphere above the need of prizes. Julia could have all the clothes, conveyances, and friends she liked. There was no one to say "No" to her least reasonable wishes.

Joy could not imagine Owen ever saying "No." If he had a fault, it was a too ready acquiescence in the wants of others, so ready that he sometimes gave his agreement without seeing that their wants conflicted. His good nature had no apparent end. It was perhaps merely the profundity of his love for Julia which gave him the appearance of trying to lay his hand upon a compensation for her, as if there was something which, after all, he knew she had not got.

"Oh, I know I am the luckiest person in the world," Julia would say to Joy, with an undercurrent of irony in her voice; "you need n't tell me that. I have n't even the smallest of Job's boils, let alone his misfortunes. I suppose, if I saw a misfortune, I should not know what it was."

"Oh, but it's more than the things you have n't got," Joy said in the only

memorable conversation their interrupted life ever left them peace to go into. "It's being, I suppose, so loved. I can see it in you, Julia, as if some one had set a lamp behind a curtain. You pull the curtain down, of course, I know, but the light shines through." Julia gave her a long, curious look, then she said:

"And you, my dear-don't tell me you have n't as much right to such an illumination as I have. How about the love that poor old Nick has for you? You 're the gentlest human being I know, and yet it's odd, to say the least of it, how you hurt without a qualm the person who loves you most."

"I did n't hurt him without a qualm, Joy answered in a low voice, “but it 's so much to be sure of, Julia. I want to know I can bear it. I think now I can nearly bear it. Your babies are so well; neither of them ever has anything the matter with it."

Julia stared a little.

"My babies?" she asked. "What do you mean, Joy? What have my babies to do with your not marrying old Nick?"

"Don't you know why I refused him?" Joy asked. "I told him I was afraid if I had children they might be ill. I have n't talked to you very much about that time with Rosemary. I did n't think I could; you 're so happy, and one can't tell happy people everything. But I've been very frightened about children being ill. No one could mind death for people after they 'd seen pain; but pain is dreadful, and you can't stop it. That's what I'm afraid of. But I'm getting better all the time; being afraid is n't any good. I think in the end it makes more pain, so I do try not to be afraid."

Julia looked at Joy for a long time, and then she said in her tender voice: "Are you quite sure Nicolas understood that that was why you were refusing him?"

"I think he must have understood," Joy replied. "I tried to tell him, but he went away very quickly. Being married must make it easier to tell people things, because they 're always there."

"No, it does n't," said Julia, quickly; "it makes it harder. You see, you've said all you 've got to say. They know, or think they know; you can't make a fresh impression on people who already know."

"But some people understand so quickly!" Joy persisted. "I should think Owen did without being told."

Instantly that guarded look came over Julia's eyes. She ceased to be Julia; she became a wife.

"He is wonderfully sympathetic, is n't he?" she said in a cheerful, perfunctory voice that put an end to the subject. It was as if Julia still wanted to say something more, but not about Owen.

She waited for a long time, hoping that Joy would give her an opportunity; but Joy did n't want to talk to this new Julia, who had an incommunicable consciousness. She wanted the old one, who talked on the same footing as herself. Finally, Julia produced in despair a fresh subject which might have a more fortunate turn.

"It's curious," she said, "how much Nicolas dislikes Owen. Did you know they had been at school together? I simply can't have him in the house. Owen 's perfectly willing,-he 's most dear and kind about it, but Nicolas won't come."

asked in horror. Julia shook her head. "But surely he must say why," Joy insisted. "It is n't like Nicolas to be so utterly unfair and unkind."

Julia rose slowly and straightened a picture on the wall; she answered Joy without turning to face her.

"He did n't want us to get married, you know," she said. "He's terribly obstinate. But, Joy dear, he would not make a bad husband-poor old Nick!"

The next morning Joy got a letter from her mother to ask her to go home.

"We have had rather an excitement," Mrs. Featherstone wrote. "Nicolas has been at home for a week or two lately, and he and Maude seem to consider themselves engaged."

Joy was sitting in the rose garden when she read this letter. It had always seemed to her rather a silly little garden, like something arranged for a bazaar.

There were rows and rows of very expensive teas. They smelt extraordinarily strong and sweet and had the most exquisite coloring; but they grew there in that flat, expensive way only because they had been planted without love or forethought by gardeners.

Her eyes lifted themselves to the finished blooms, and something in her heart fluttered desperately as if it felt itself suddenly drawn in and caged. Something that had been wild and free and quite nameless knew that it would never feel free again. Joy had never wanted anything for herself before, and even now she felt she had no real claim on Nicolas; only he had always stood there, the one solid figure in her life. He had n't been like a light inside her; he had never