"I must be quiet--I must sleep--I must forget." But it was not until the third day that a dismal, sullen stillness succeeded the storm of rage and grief, and he awoke from a sleep of exhaustion feeling as if he were withered at his heart.

He knew that life had to be taken up again, and that in all its farces he must play his part.

At first the thought of Mostyn Hall presented itself as an asylum.

It stood amid thick woods, and there were miles of wind-blown wolds and hills around it.

He was lord and master there, no one could intrude upon his sorrow; he could nurse it in those lonely rooms to his heart's content.