, peacefully enough,
still holding her sister and daughter by the hand. As soon as Ruth felt
the fingers slacken, she spoke, under her breath:

"How came you to know of it?"

"Dr. Nash. I spoke with her ladyship on the way, and she said it was
true."

"What did she say was true?"

Granny Marrable had to think. What was it Gwen had said? She continued,
feeling for her memories:--"I said to Gwen o' the Towers 'twas my dead
sister come from the grave, and Dr. Nash had spoken to it. And John
Costrell would have me unsay my word, but her ladyship bore me out,
though 'twas but a way of speech." She paused a moment; then, before
Ruth could frame an inquiry as to how much she knew of the story from
either Dr. Nash or Gwen, went on, her eyes fixed, with a look that had
terror in it, on the figure on the bed:--"If this be Maisie, was she not
dead to me--my sister? Oh, how can this be Maisie?" Her mind was still
in a turmoil of bewilderment and doubt.

Then Ruth's speech was again at fault, and yet she saw nothing strange
in it. "Oh, mother dearest, this _must_ be my mother. How else could she
know? Had you but heard her talk as I did, of the old mill!--and there
she was a-knowing of it all, and I could think her mad! Oh, mother dear,
the fool that I was not to see she _must_ be my mother!"

"It comes and goes, child," said Granny Marrable tremulously, "that she
is your mother, not dead as I have known her. But it is all your life. I
mind how the letter came that told it. After your grandfather's death.
And all a lie!"

"Her ladyship will tell you that, mother, as she told it to me. I have
not the heart to think it, but it was my father's work. God have mercy
on him!"

"God have mercy on him, for his sin! But how had he the cruelty? What
wrong had I done him?"

"Mother, I pray that I may one day see the light upon it. God spare us a
while, just for to know the meaning of it all." It was a confession of
the hopelessness of any attempt to grapple with it then.

Keziah Solmes, while preparing some supper, looked in once, twice, at
the watchers beside the still sleeping figure on the bed. They were not
speaking, and never took their eyes from the placid, colourless face and
snow-white hair loose on the pillow; but they gave her the idea of dazed
bewilderment, waiting for the mists to clear and let them dare to move
again. The fog-bound steamer on the ocean stands still, or barely cuts
the water. It is known, on board, tha