re was no disappointment in her face at not being understood,
for she had spoken almost to herself and had expected no reply. No
change of expression softened or accentuated the quiet hardness which
overspread her naturally gentle face. But the thought was evidently
still present in her mind, for her attention did not fix itself upon her
book, and presently she looked at her daughter, as the latter bent her
head over the little bag she was making.

The young girl felt her mother's eyes upon her, looked up herself, and
smiled faintly, almost mechanically, as before. It was a sort of habit
they both had--a way of acknowledging one another's presence in the
world. But this time it seemed to Clare that there was a question in the
look, and after she had smiled she spoke.

"No," she said, "I don't understand how anybody can forget the past. It
seems to me that I shall always remember why I did things, said things,
and thought things. I should, if I lived a hundred years, I'm quite
sure."

"Perhaps you have a better memory than I," answered Mrs. Bowring. "But
I don't think it is exactly a question of memory either. I can remember
what I said, and did, and thought, well--twenty years ago. But it seems
to me very strange that I should have thought, and spoken, and acted,
just as I did. After all isn't it natural? They tell us that our bodies
are quite changed in less time than that."

"Yes--but the soul does not change," said Clare with conviction.

"The soul--"

Mrs. Bowring repeated the word, but said nothing more, and her still,
blue eyes wandered from her daughter's face and again fixed themselves
on an imaginary point of the far southern distance.

"At least," said Clare, "I was always taught so."

She smiled again, rather coldly, as though admitting that such teaching
might not be infallible after all.

"It is best to believe it," said her mother quietly, but in a colourless
voice. "Besides," she added, with a change of tone, "I do believe it,
you know. One is always the same, in the main things. It is the point of
view that changes. The best picture in the world does not look the same
in every light, does it?"

"No, I suppose not. You may like it in one light and not in another,
and in one place and not in another."

"Or at one time of life, and not at another," added Mrs. Bowring,
thoughtfully.

"I can't imagine that." Clare paused a moment. "Of course you are
thinking of people," she continued presently,