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Late that night, in the old panelled library at Bracondale, Hector
walked up and down. He, too, was suffering, suffering intensely, his
only grain of comfort being that he was alone. His mother was away in
the north with Anne, and he had the place to himself. In his hand was
Theodora's letter. As Josiah had calculated, knowing cross-country
posts, both his and hers had arrived at the same time.
Hector paced and paced up and down, his thoughts maddening him.
And so three people were unhappy now--not he and his beloved one alone.
This was the greater calamity.
But how he had misjudged Josiah! The commo
