e, I thought you might have begun to give the matter
consideration."

Marion resolved to treasure that remark for repetition to Richard; and
was dashed to remember that it was probable in future they would not
share their jokes. "Well, I don't think there's any evidence for it at
all," she said aloud; "but I don't think that proves that there isn't
one. I don't think we would be allowed to know if there was one, for I'm
sure that if most people knew for certain there was going to be another
world they wouldn't make the best of this." But she saw, from the way
that Ellen continued to stare down at her toes, that that abstract
comfort had not been of any service, so she parted with yet another
secret. "But I do know that when Richard's father died all the trees
round the house seemed to know where he had gone."

Ellen raised wet but happier eyes. "Why, I felt like that when they
brought mother's coffin out of the Fever Hospital. Only then it was the
hills in the distance that knew--the Pentland Hills. But do you really
think that was true?"

"I knew it was then," said Marion. "If I am less certain now it is only
because I have forgotten."

They nodded wisely. "After all, there must be something."

"Yes, there must be something...."

Ellen began to dance again. Marion turned aside and tried to lose the
profound malaise that the reticent feel when they have given up a secret
in thinking how well worth while it had been, since Ellen was such a
dear, young, loving thing. She found consolation in this frost-polished
morning: the pale, bright sky in which the light stood naked, her
abandoned veil of clouds floating above the horizon; the swoop and dance
over the marshes of the dazzling specks that were seagulls; the fur of
rime that the dead leaves on the hedgerow wore, and the fine
jewellery-work of the glistening grass tufts in its shadow. The world
had neglected nothing in its redding up.

At her elbow Ellen spoke shyly. "Richard's come down at last. May I go
in to him, Mrs. Yaverland?"

"Of course you may. You can do anything you like. From now onwards he's
yours, not mine."

Ellen ran in and Richard came to the window to meet her. As he drew her
over the threshold by both hands he called down the garden, "Good
morning, mother." But Marion had perceived that from the moment of
seeing her his face had worn the dark colour of estrangement. She turned
and walked blindly away, not noticing that Mabel had come out to