Dividing Waters. I. A. R. Wylie

worlds. And so I am. What does it matter that millions of people have been where I am going? I have never been before. It is all new to me."

      Her father sighed in pained disapproval.

      "Let us hope that your adventures in foreign lands will not cost you too dear, Nora," he said. "May they bring you back to your home contented and grateful for its blessed peace."

      Mrs. Ingestre leant forward and laid her hand on Nora's. The movement might have been made in confirmation of her husband's words—it might also have had another meaning. It might have meant, taken in conjunction with the almost youthful flash in the dark eyes: "Be of good cheer! The world and life are before you. Grasp both in spite of every one. They are worth fighting for!"

      And Nora's clasp responded. Her spirits were at their highest pitch. She was afraid of nothing; the long journey, the foreign country, and its despised inhabitants had no terrors for her. Youth and morning sunshine swept her forward on a wave of impetuous joy. She even found it in her heart to be thankful for the "blows of Providence," though for other reasons than those of her piously resigned parent. "After all, now I shall be able to fight my own battles," was her proud thought.

      The day in London cast the first shadow over her courage. They arrived in the metropolis at midday, and as the boat-train left at eight o'clock in the evening there was a whole afternoon to be spent wandering about the busy streets—a pleasant occupation if you understand how to go about it. But this was one thing that the Rev. John did not understand. He belonged to the class of people for whom London is a great black, smutty monster, replete with all the vices and crimes of Babylon, and his passage through its heart was a veritable penance. His sincerely Puritan temperament—for, to do him justice, he was but half a hypocrite and only that much unconsciously, like the rest of us—found "sermons in stones," and in everything else from the wicked luxury of the lady lounging in her victoria to the ragged profligacy of the beggar. Sermons he delivered, therefore, and Nora, trudging wearily at his side, with all her eyes on the ignored shop windows, listened in sullen defiance. She loved London with the almost passionate love which is given to no other city in the world. She loved the fogs, its dirt, its stern, relentless bustle; she felt a sort of vague kinship with its vagabonds, its grandees, its very policemen, and her father's criticisms goaded her to distraction. Yet once, as they dragged themselves into an A.B.C. for tea, she saw her mother's face, and her anger died down, yielding to the first cold touch of home-sickness. There was something written on the pale, worn face which she could not read but which filled her with vague pain. Visited by what unshed years of regret, longing, and unavailing remorse had those quiet eyes watched the tide of life flow past them? Nora did not know. In an instinctive, almost childish, sympathy she slipped her hand into Mrs. Ingestre's.

      "Dear, dear mother!" she said, "I wish I could make you happy—really happy."

      The Rev. John had gone to order the buns and tea which were to form the pièces de résistance of their evening meal. Mrs. Ingestre looked down into the young, earnest face. Her own face relaxed an instant from its own usual serenity. It was as though a sudden gust of wind had passed over a lake, ruffling its smooth, peaceful surface.

      "Be happy," she said almost imperatively. "Whatever else happens, remember that you have the right to happiness. And to be happy you must open your heart wide—you must welcome all that is good, even if it is not the good you have been taught to know. Don't let Delford or—or even us make your standard. Keep the past and those that love you, but don't let them hem you—don't let them stand between you and the future. Show your new world a big, generous, open heart, and it will open a heart as big and generous to you. Be arrogant and petty, and everything about you will reflect yourself. Oh, Nora, I am not preaching; a narrow heart is a curse to others and to itself."

      There was a peculiar emphasis in her words, a note in her voice so like despair that it rang long afterwards in Nora's memory. It cast a deeper shadow over her sinking spirits, and as she walked by her mother's side towards the station which was to mark their first long parting, the hot, burning tears welled up in her eyes and only by a strong effort were kept back from overflow. Since that morning, with its brilliant sunshine, its youth and hope, all had changed within her and without. The sunshine had yielded to cold, dark shadows, youth and hope lagged wearily, overcome by the growing tide of home-love. "Dear old England!" Nora whispered to herself. "Dear old England!" And the very shop windows, casting bright golden patches on the thickening fog, seemed to have a special light of their own. The faces of the passers-by were dear to her because they were English faces and because she was going to a strange country, where she would see them no more. Even the red-brick church and "the monument" became hallowed in her memory. In that moment of youthful grief she would have given worlds to know that she was going home, that there were to be no partings, that she was to live her life in the dull peace to which she had waved a joyous farewell that very morning.

      They entered the great station. The bustle and confusion brought her no relief—rather, it increased the sense of helplessness which was growing stronger and stronger. For a moment she lost sight of her father and mother, and it was then she felt for the first time all the poignancy of the loneliness which was, in less than a quarter of an hour, to become an irreparable reality. She turned, dazedly seeking a familiar face, and in the same instant a firm, warm hand clasped hers.

      "Nora—little girl!"

      It was Arnold who stood beside her. She recognised his strong, gaunt face with a sudden, joyous start which brought the colour to her cheeks. Had she unconsciously been longing for him? Had the heartache been a little because she had not seen him, because ever since that decisive morning he had kept away from her, taking her dismissal as final? Was it final? These were things he at least might have asked as he felt the quick response of her touch and saw the light flash back into her tear-filled eyes. But Nora thought of nothing—asked no questions. She clung to his arm like a tired, lost child.

      "Oh, I am so glad," she said, almost incoherent with relief, "so glad!"

      "I couldn't keep away," he said, himself shaken by her sudden self-abandonment. "I did my best, but in the end I had to come. I could not let you go so far from me without a God-speed. And something seemed to tell me that you would be glad to see me."

      "I am!" she cried. "Of course I am!"

      They reached Mrs. Ingestre and her husband, who were busy with the luggage registration. A shadow seemed to pass over the latter's face as she saw the two together, but she greeted Arnold with her usual serene courtesy.

      "Miles has come too," she said.

      Miles was, indeed, very much en évidence. He had made himself what he called "smart" for the occasion, and an extraordinary high collar and a flagrantly red tie certainly put him beyond all danger of being overlooked. His face was a trifle flushed—perhaps with the hurry of his arrival—and his manner jocose.

      "You look as though you might flood the station any minute," he told Nora. "I bet anything you'd give your bottom dollar to be out of it."

      "Don't, Miles!" she answered gently. "Of course I am sorry to leave you all. It is only natural."

      Her eyes met Arnold's, and perhaps they said more than she knew. He came back to her side.

      "Let us go and find a comfortable corner for you," he suggested.

      She followed him passively, and they walked along the platform to the end of the train, where the crowd of passengers was less dense.

      "Dear little Nora!" he said, looking down at her with infinite pity and tenderness. The tears rushed again to her eyes. She fought them down courageously, but her voice shook as she answered:

      "It is so hard to go," she said, "much harder than I thought this morning. I have only just realised how dear everything—everybody is to me."

      "Nora, that is what I hoped. You are so young—you do not know your own heart. Now perhaps you can tell better—if there is any chance for me."

      She saw the pleading in his face, and she made no answer. Her throat hurt her and she was no longer so sure. She did care for him, and if she had felt no thrill of passion at his touch, his presence seemed to envelop