Between twelve and one Quentyns let himself softly into the house with his latch-key. He was immediately attracted by the light in the drawing room, the door of which was slightly ajar. He came into the room at once, to find Hilda lying back in her easy-chair, fast asleep. She was looking pale—all her pretty roses had fled. Quentyns' first impulse was to fold her in his arms in an embrace of absolute love and reconciliation.
What a pity it is that we don't oftener yield to our first impulses, for they are as a rule whispered to us by our good angels.
Quentyns bent forward, and lightly, very lightly, touched the sleeper's soft hair with his big hand. That touch was a caress, but it startled Hilda, who woke up with a cry.
"Oh, Jasper," she said, looking at him with alarm in her eyes, "you—you are home! I didn't mean to go to sleep, and—what is it, Jasper?"
"Kiss me, Hilda; I am glad you have returned," said Quentyns. "But another night, if I should happen to be late, you must not sit up for me—I hate being waited for."
CHAPTER XIV.
THE LITTLE RIFT.
No backward path; ah! no returning;
No second crossing that ripple's flow:
Come to me now for the mist is burning:
Come ere it darkens; Ah, no; ah, no!
Jean Ingelow.
Jasper Quentyns was quite certain that he was behaving admirably under circumstances of a specially trying nature.