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Here, in broad daylight, with everything commonplace around her, last night seemed centuries away. The whole thing was impossible. Why, it was the sort of third-rate story she had come across sometimes and not cared to read. Had it really happened to her? Yet what must Uncle Markham think? What other lies had Power told?

“Poor old Alick!” her uncle continued, as she sat silent. “He’s most awfully fond of you, little girl.”

“He—he doesn’t———” She could not go on.

“I know. Perhaps he doesn’t know how to put things quite your way,” pursued Uncle Markham wistfully; “but he’s a good fellow—a good fellow.”

“Please, Uncle Markham!” Pamela implored. She wondered if he would even believe her version of yesterday—probably not. Perhaps she ought to try to tell him, but he, distressed at her pleading voice, began to talk of something else, and her courage waned.

She slept most of the afternoon, worn out and limp, and did not appear at supper-time, on the plea of a headache. The next day, and two or three succeeding days, passed uneventfully. Pamela was summoning sufficient courage to state decisively to Uncle Markham the necessity for her immediate return to England. She did not speak to Power, but he made no effort to avoid her, and in his eyes, whenever hers involuntarily met them, there was an expression of mastery which chilled and terrified her, though she fought against it. Aunt Rosa she had never understood; she was silent as usual, but her gaze, which had never been friendly, now held something from which the child shrank with her whole soul. The only nice thing which happened was the arrival of a letter from Tony, written from a town in the Northern Territory. It was quite short—as a matter of fact he had been on the point of starting off to “die,” and there was so much to say that it was useless trying to