‘You could have fetched me home. Wood's dwelling,—a plain, substantial, commodious farm-house. "Water!" he gasped. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. Drummond had made an abominable mistake. ‘How did you know that Mary was his daughter?’ Gerald hesitated.
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