onkland, bathed in the sweetness and shimmer
of summer, and of Barbara standing at her gate towering above this
little figure, which now sat there so silent, with very white face.
Those carved features, those keen, yet veiled eyes, had too often
haunted her thoughts; they were like a bad dream come true.

"My grandson is not here, is he?"

Audrey shook her head.

"We have heard of his decision. I will not beat about the bush with you.
It is a disaster for me a calamity. I have known and loved him since he
was born, and I have been foolish enough to dream, dreams about him. I
wondered perhaps whether you knew how much we counted on him. You must
forgive an old woman's coming here like this. At my age there are few
things that matter, but they matter very much."

And Audrey thought: "And at my age there is but one thing that matters,
and that matters worse than death." But she did not speak. To whom,
to what should she speak? To this hard old woman, who personified the
world? Of what use, words?

"I can say to you," went on the voice of the little figure, that seemed
so to fill the room with its grey presence, "what I could not bring
myself to say to others; for you are not hard-hearted."

A quiver passed up from the heart so praised to the still lips. No, she
was not hard-hearted! She could even feel for this old woman from whose
voice anxiety had stolen its despotism.

"Eustace cannot live without his career. His career is himself, he must
be doing, and leading, and spending his powers. What he has given you is
not his true self. I don't want to hurt you, but the truth is the truth,
and we must all bow before it. I may be hard, but I can respect sorrow."

To respect sorrow! Yes, this grey visitor could do that, as the wind
passing over the sea respects its surface, as the air respects the
surface of a rose, but to penetrate to the heart, to understand her
sorrow, that old age could not do for youth! As well try to track out
the secret of the twistings in the flight of those swallows out there
above the river, or to follow to its source the faint scent of the
lilies in that bowl! How should she know what was passing in here--this
little old woman whose blood was cold? And Audrey had the sensation of
watching someone pelt her with the rind and husks of what her own spirit
had long devoured. She had a longing to get up, and take the hand, the
chill, spidery hand of age, and thrust it into her breast, and say:
"Fee