n a sense an act of penitence, once
decided upon, Katherine carried it forward with a certain gentle
ardour, renewing crimson carpets and hangings and disposing the
furniture according to its long-ago positions. The memory of what had
once been should remain forever here enshrined, but with the glad
colours of life, not the faded ones of unforgiven death upon it. It
satisfied her conscience to do this. For it appeared to her that so
very much of good had been granted her of late, so large a measure of
peace and hope vouchsafed to her, that it was but fitting she should
bear testimony to her awareness of all that by obliteration of the last
outward sign of the rebellion of her sorrowful youth. The Richard of
to-day, homestaying, busy with much kindness, thoughtful of her
comfort, honouring her with delicate courtesies--which to whoso
receives them makes her womanhood a privilege rather than a burden--yet
teasing her not a little, too, in the security of a fair and equal
affection, bore such moving resemblance to that other Richard, first
master of her heart, that Katherine could afford to cancel the cruelty
of certain memories, retaining only the lovelier portion of them, and
could find a peculiar sweetness in frequentation of this room, formerly
devoted wholly to a sense of injury and blackness of hate.

And on the day in question, Katherine's presence exhaled a specially
tender brightness, even as the thirsty earth, refreshed by the thunder
rain, sent up a rare whiteness as of incense smoke. For she had been
somewhat anxious about Dickie lately. To her sensitive observation of
him, his virtue, his evenness of temper, his reasonableness, had come
to have in them a pathetic element. He was lovely and pleasant in his
ways. But sometimes, when tired or off his guard, she had surprised an
expression on his face, a constrained patience of speech, even of
attitude, which made her fear he had given her but that half of his
confidence calculated to cheer, while he kept the half calculated to
sadden rather rigorously to himself. And, in good truth, Richard did
suffer somewhat at this period. The first push of enthusiastic
conviction had passed, while his new manner of conduct and of thought
had not yet acquired the stability of habit. The tide was low. Shallows
and sand-bars disclosed themselves. He endured the temptations arising
from the state known to saintly writers as "spiritual dryness," and
found those temptations of an i