n black serge flowed away from the strong, finely moulded
wrist; the white starched _guimpe_ showed snowy between the drooping folds
of the nun's veil.... These familiar things Lynette drank in with a sense
of unspeakable content and pleasure. Then--her eyes opened widely, and she
knew.

She was looking into eyes that had seen the Beatific Vision--great grey
eyes that were unfathomable lakes of heavenly tenderness and love divine.
And the face that framed them was a radiant pale splendour, indescribable
in its glorious beauty, unfathomable in its fulfilled peace. Her own eyes
drank peace from them, deeply, insatiably, while the Herion thrushes sang
their dewy matins, and the scent of mignonette and sweet-peas and early
roses mingled with the smell of the sea, stole in at the open casement
where the white blind swelled out like a breeze-filled sail.

How long Lynette lay there storing up content and rapture she did not
know, or want to know. But at last the wonder of those eyes came
nearer--nearer! She felt the dear pressure of the familiar lips upon her
own. A fragrance enveloped her, an exquisite joy overbrimmed her, as a
voice--the beloved, unforgotten voice of matchless music--spoke. It said:

"_Love your husband as I loved Richard! Be to a child of his what I have
been to you!_"

* * * * *

Eyes and face and voice, white hand and flowing veil, were all gone then.
Lynette sat up, sobbing for joy, and blindly holding out her arms, and the
rising sun looked over the mountains eastward, and drew one hushing,
golden finger over the lips of the cold, grey, whispering sea.

LXIX

A thin, subterraneous screech, accompanied by a whiff of cinder-flavoured
steam, heralded the Down Express as it plunged out of the cliff-tunnel,
flashed across an intervening space, and was lost among the chestnuts and
larches. A metallic rattle and scroop told that the official in the box on
the other side of the Castle bluff had opened the points. And hearing the
clanking bustle of the train's arrival in the station, Lynette reminded
herself with a sigh of relief that her maid was packing, that she would
presently make her excuses to Major Wrynche and Lady Hannah, and that the
midnight up-mail should take her home to Owen.

Her course lay clear now, pointed out by the beloved, lost hand. But for
this Heaven-sent light that had been cast upon her way, Lynette knew that
she might have wandered on in