et his eyes fixed on hers, in a
questioning stare, and had known what was in his heart--a simple,
unreproachful wonder at the strange events that had made her so
intimately responsible for his son's happiness.

She thought of Margaret too, as she sat there; of the poor girl who had
so rested on her, believed in her, loved her. There she was now at
Overfield, living in a nightmare of suspense, watching so eagerly for
the scanty letters, disappointed every time of the good news for which
she hoped....

* * * * *

The burden was an intolerable one. Beatrice was scarcely conscious of
where she sat or for what she waited. She was living over again every
detail of her relations with Ralph. She remembered how she had seen him
at first at Chelsea; how he had come out with Master More from the door
of the New Building and across the grass. She had been twisting a
grass-ring then as she listened to the talk, and had tossed it on to the
dog's back. Then, day by day she had met him; he had come at all hours;
and she had watched him, for she thought she had found a man. She
remembered how her interest had deepened; how suddenly her heart had
leapt that evening when she came into the hall and found him sitting in
the dark. Then, step by step, the friendship had grown till it had
revealed its radiant face at the bitterness of Chris's words in the
house at Westminster. Then her life had become magical; all the world
cried "Ralph" to her; the trumpets she heard sounded to his praise; the
sunsets had shone for him and her. Then came the news of the Visitors'
work; and her heart had begun to question her insistently; the questions
had become affirmation; and in one passionate hour she had gone to him,
scourged him with her tongue, and left him. She had seen him again once
or twice in the years that followed; had watched him from a window hung
with tapestries in Cheapside, as he rode down beside the King; and had
not dared to ask herself what her heart so longed to tell her. Then had
come the mother's question; and the falling of the veils.

Then he had called her; she never doubted that; as she sat alone in her
room one evening. It had come, thin and piteous;--"Beatrice, Beatrice."
He needed her, and she had gone, and meddled with his life once more.

And he lay in the Tower....

* * * * *

"Beatrice, my child."

She turned from the window, her eyes blind with tears; a