She sat down upon the bench and strove to gather some of the quietude of that summer night into her heart, and to learn from the growing things of nature about her something of their patience and their extraordinary perseverance.
But the occurrences of the day had overtaxed her, and she could not.
Only this morning, and in this very garden, the good news had come and she had regained Harry Feversham.

For in that way she thought of Willoughby's message.

This morning she had regained him, and this evening the bad news had come and she had lost him, and most likely right to the very end of mortal life.

Harry Feversham meant to pay for his fault to the uttermost scruple, and Ethne cried out against his thoroughness, which he had learned from no other than herself.

"Surely," she thought, "he might have been content.