The next moment Amy Waring's heart beat tumultuously; she felt as if she should fall from her seat.

Her eyes were blind with hot tears.

Aunt Martha did not look up--did not start or exclaim--but deliberately threaded her needle carefully, and creased her work with her thumb-nail.

After a little while, during which the sea was calming itself, she said, slowly, repeating Amy's words syllable by syllable, "You do not believe Lawrence Newt loves you ?" "No," was the low, firm whisper of reply.
"Whom do you think he loves ?" There was an instant of almost deathly stillness in that turbulent heart.
For a moment the very sea of feeling seemed to be frozen.
Then, and very slowly, a terrible doubt arose in Amy Waring's mind.
Before this conversation every perplexity had resolved itself in the consciousness that somehow it must all come right by-and-by.

It had never occurred to her to ask, Does he love any one else?
But she saw now at once that if he did, then the meaning of his words was plain enough; and so, of course, he did.
Who was it?
Amy knew there was but one person in the world whose name could possibly answer that question.
But had Lawrence not watched with her--and with delight--the progress of Arthur Merlin's feeling for that other?
Yes; but if, as he watched so closely, he saw and felt how lovely that other was, was it so wonderful that he should love her?
These things flashed through her mind as she sat motionless by Aunt Martha; and she said, with profound tranquillity, "Very possibly, Hope Wayne." Aunt Martha did not look up.