had cut short a situation which might have had an even more tragic
issue. One night in the big chair at the side of her bed, he woke from a
doze to see her eyes fixed on him. They were different; they saw, were
her own eyes again. Her lips moved.

"Dad."

"Yes, my pet."

"I remember everything."

At that dreadful little saying, Winton leaned forward and put his lips to
her hand, that lay outside the clothes.

"Where is he buried?"

"At Widrington."

"Yes."

It was rather a sigh than a word and, raising his head, Winton saw her
eyes closed again. Now that the fever had gone, the white transparency
of her cheeks and forehead against the dark lashes and hair was too
startling. Was it a living face, or was its beauty that of death?

He bent over. She was breathing--asleep.

XII

The return to Mildenham was made by easy stages nearly two months after
Summerhay's death, on New Year's day--Mildenham, dark, smelling the same,
full of ghosts of the days before love began. For little Gyp, more than
five years old now, and beginning to understand life, this was the
pleasantest home yet. In watching her becoming the spirit of the place,
as she herself had been when a child, Gyp found rest at times, a little
rest. She had not picked up much strength, was shadowy as yet, and if
her face was taken unawares, it was the saddest face one could see. Her
chief preoccupation was not being taken unawares. Alas! To Winton, her
smile was even sadder. He was at his wits' end about her that winter and
spring. She obviously made the utmost effort to keep up, and there was
nothing to do but watch and wait. No use to force the pace. Time alone
could heal--perhaps. Meanwhile, he turned to little Gyp, so that they
became more or less inseparable.

Spring came and passed. Physically, Gyp grew strong again, but since
their return to Mildenham, she had never once gone outside the garden,
never once spoken of The Red House, never once of Summerhay. Winton had
hoped that warmth and sunlight would bring some life to her spirit, but
it did not seem to. Not that she cherished her grief, appeared, rather,
to do all in her power to forget and mask it. She only had what used to
be called a broken heart. Nothing to be done. Little Gyp, who had been
told that "Baryn" had gone away for ever, and that she must "never speak
of him for fear of making Mum sad," would sometimes stand and watch her
mother with puzzled gravity.