sire. Rosamund scarcely noticed, or did not notice,
these things. With her people were at their best. That night, when
Beattie was going to bed, Rosamund had said to her:

"I can't think why Mrs. Dickinson is called 'the cold douche.' I find
her so warm-hearted and so amusing!"

And so it was with them all. Rosamund had the magic touch which drew
the best out of every one in Welsley, because she was happy there, and
sincerely loved the place.

"How can I leave Welsley?" she thought now, as she walked up and down in
the garden, and heard presently the chiming of midnight and the voice
of the watchman beyond the Dark Entry. God seemed very near to her
in Welsley, God and the happiness of God. In Welsley she felt, or was
beginning to feel, that she was almost able to combine two lives, the
life she had grasped and the life she had let go. Here she was a mother
and at moments she was almost a religious too. She played with her boy,
she trained him, watched over his small body and his increasing soul;
and she meditated between the enclosing walls, listening to bells and
floating praises, to the Dresden Amen, and to the organ with its many
voices all dedicated to the service of God. Often, when she walked alone
in the garden, or sat alone in some hidden corner under the mossy walls,
she felt like a nun who had given up the world forever, and had found
the true life in God. In imagination, then, she lived the life of which
she had dreamed as a girl before any man had brought her his love.

She could never, even in imagination, live that life truly, without
effort, in London. Welsley had made her almost hate London. She did
not know how she would be able to bear the return to it. Yet, if Canon
Wilton were right in what he had said to her that afternoon, Dion might
come back very soon, and therefore very soon she might have to leave
Welsley.

No. 5 Little Market Street once more; vaporous Westminster leaning to
the dark river!

Rosamund sighed deeply as she looked up again to the towers, and the
moon, and turned to go into Little Cloisters. It was difficult to
shut out such a night; it would be more difficult to give up the long
meditations, the dreams that came in this sweet retirement sheltered by
the house of God.

* * * * *

Two days later, at breakfast-time, Rosamund received the following
letter, written on paper scented with "Wood violet":

"HOTEL PALACE-BY-THE-SEA, BOURNEMOUTH, Thursday

"MY DEAR MRS. LEIT