ever since they had met, but that she had turned from the
knowledge, until, at last, in an unguarded moment, it had reached and
overwhelmed her, flooding her soul with passionate joy, yet filling her
with a peace and security she had never known, either in the old
farmhouse or since the long-ago day when all her brave castles of youth
and love had crashed down into the dust. Gone now was unbelief, and
disdain, and fear of terror that stalked by night; a rock was at her
back, there was a hand to hold in the blackest darkness. Never any
more need she feel fear and spiritual loneliness. Withal, there was
the passionate joy of adventure, of exploration in sweet, unknown lands
of the heart, the launching of a boat upon a sea of dreams. Life sang
to Christine Chaine like a nightingale under the stars.

How tenderly and patiently she beguiled the heat-weary children
throughout that long afternoon! There was no feeling of haste upon
her. She knew that sweetness was travelling her way, that "what is for
thee, gravitates toward thee," and is vain to seek before the appointed
hour. It might come as even-song to a seemingly endless day, or dawn
following a fearsome night. But it was coming. That was all that
mattered!

The directions Mrs. van Cannan had given, as they left the luncheon,
were to the effect that, when the siesta hour was over, the children
were to have possession of the drawing-room until it was cool enough
for them to go for their accustomed walk. This plan was to continue as
long as the hot weather lasted.

"I think it is not very healthy for any of you," she said amiably, "to
stick all day in a room you have to sleep in at night."

Christine could not help being surprised at her giving up the coolest
and quietest room in the house, and one that had hitherto been
forbidden ground to the children. However, here they were, installed
among gaily cretonned furniture, the little girls dashing about like
squirrels in a strange cage, Roddy, apparently more at home, prowling
softly around, examining things with a reverent yet familiar air.

"I remember when we used to come here every day," said Rita suddenly,
and stood stock-still with concentrated eyes, like one trying to catch
the memory of a dream. "When was it, Roddy?"

He looked at her steadily.

"When our old nannie was here."

Rita fixed her blue eyes on his.

"There was someone else here, too," she insisted.

"Sophy always brought us here,"