ching them would amuse as well
as occupy her."

"It is an idea worth developing!" exclaimed Katherine; and they walked
on a few paces in silence.

"So De Burgh has been paying you a visit?" said Bertie at length.

"He has been paying Sandbourne a visit. He did not stay with us."

"It is wonderful that he could tame his energies even to stay here a few
days."

"He was here only two days the last time."

"_You_ cannot have much in common with such a man."

"Not much, certainly; still, he interests me. He has had such a narrow
escape of being a _good_ man."

"Narrow escape! I should say he never was in much danger of _that_
destiny."

"Perhaps if the door of every heart were opened to us we should see more
good in all than we could expect." A few words more brought them to the
boatman's house, where they parted.

Miss Trant was at home, Mrs. Norris said. Katherine ascended the steep
ladder-like stair, and having knocked at the door, entered the room.
Rachel was seated in the window, which was wide open. Her elbows rested
on a small table, and her chin on her clasped hands, while her large
blue eyes looked steadily out over the bay, which slept blue and
peaceful below; the lines of her slightly bent figure looked graceful
and refined, but there was infinite sadness in her pose.

"I am very glad to see you again," said Katherine. Rachel, who was too
deep in thought to hear her enter, started up to clasp her offered hand.
Her pale thin face was lit with pleasure, and her grave, almost stern
eyes softened.

"And so am I. You do not know _how_ glad. Do you know, I began to think
I never should see you again," and she kissed the hand she held.

"Do not!" said Katherine, bending forward to kiss her brow. "Were you so
ill, then?"

"Not physically ill, except for my cough; but for all that I felt dying,
and really I often wonder why you try to keep me alive. I am a trouble
to you, and I do very little good. Had I not been a coward I should have
left the world, where I have no particular place, long ago."

"Well, you see, I have a sort of superstition that life is a goodly gift
which must not be cast aside for a whim; and why should you despair of
finding peace? There is so much that is delightful in life!"

"And so much that is tragic!"

"Ah, yes! but if we only seek for the sorrowful we destroy our own
lives, without helping any one. You must let the dead past bury its
dead."

"How if the dead past comes an