CHAPTER XXI.
The dawn broke dim on Rose Mary's soul-- No hill-crown's heavenly aureole, But a wild gleam on a shaken shoal.
-- D.

G.ROSSETTI.
If Fay's progress through life could have been drawn with a pencil it would have resembled the ups and downs, like the teeth of a saw, of a fever chart.
To Magdalen it appeared as if Fay could undergo the same feelings with the same impotent results of remorse or depression a hundred times.

They seemed to find her the same and leave her the same.

But nevertheless she did move, imperceptibly, unconsciously--no, not quite unconsciously.

The sense--common to all weak natures--not of being guided, but of being pushed was upon her.
Once again she tried to extricate herself from the pressure of some mysterious current.