when the thought first came into her mind, that he had the air of a man haunted.
In saying farewell, his eyes lingered with a kind of anguished longing on Terry's face—the face that he had once pronounced "fascinating rather than beautiful"; the face whose resemblance he had been wont to seek in the old portrait at Riding Wood House.
"Why, you look at me as if we were never going to meet again!" she exclaimed, on a frightened impulse, as he wrung her hand.
"Perhaps we never shall," he answered. "One can't be sure, can one?"
"But I have promised Nora to go back to England at once," said Terry. "Fate is against my staying more than twenty-four hours at dear St. Pierre de Chartreuse, it seems. But never mind! I have seen the sweet little place again—and talked to you here. I shall have another good memory. And we shall meet in England soon. You know, Ian, I want to be your friend."
"I could never be your friend, Terry," he protested.
"Nonsense! You said 'nonsense' to me once. I say it to you now. Please tell me where you will be in England. Not at"
"Friars' Moat? Oh, no! I can't bear the thought of the place. I don't know where I shall go."
"Oh, how dreary not to know! You have many friends, who must have asked you to their houses
