CHAPTER VIII.
But, when Gerald was gone, Helen found that she was no longer sleepy.
She lay, her eyes closed, straight and still, like an effigy on a tomb, and she thought, intently and quietly.

It was more a series of pictures than a linking of ideas with which her mind was occupied--pictures of her childhood and girlhood in Scotland and at Merriston House.

It was dispassionately that she watched the little figure, lonely, violent, walking over the moors, hiding in the thickets of the garden, choking with tears of fury, clenching teeth over fierce resentments.

She almost smiled at the sight of her.

What constant resentments, what frequent furies! They centred, of course, about the figure of her mother, lovely, vindictive, and stony-hearted, as she had been and was.