to visit, little Edward Ogilvie, the elder of the two
children, died; and not until six years later did Mrs. Ogilvie return
to England. To all outward seeming she was as emotionless and reserved
as she had ever been, and she spoke no word of her double sorrow and
her irreparable loss. Her love for her remaining child never showed
itself in caresses, and was not even discernible in her speech; but in
spite of her reserve there was an undefined feeling in most people's
minds that Mrs. Ogilvie idolized her son. Of the two who were dead no
one ever heard her speak. Whatever she thought of them seemed to be
buried in her heart as deeply as though that heart had been their
graves. And there remained only cheery, popular Peter Ogilvie, with
his mind as open as the day, and not a secret upon his soul, and with
as much reserve as a schoolboy, to inherit the fortune which a prince
might have envied, and a property which was unique in a county rich in
beautiful houses.

The gardens of Bowshott were the admiration of the countryside, and
Mrs. Ogilvie rarely entered them. The picture gallery was visited by
foreigners from every part of the world. Mrs. Ogilvie frequently
showed the works of the great masters herself, strolling along the
polished floor of the gallery, and telling the story of this picture
and that with the inimitable grace of manner which was vaguely resented
by her country neighbours, delighting the distinguished foreigners who
came to see the pictures. She herself hardly ever glanced at the old
masters for her own pleasure; although full of technical knowledge on
the subject she had no love of art. It used to weary her when she had
to listen to enthusiasm, generally only half-sincere, about her
Botticellis or her Raphaels. Music never stirred her, and she regarded
the society of the country neighbourhood where she lived with a sense
of uncomprehension which she sometimes found difficult to conceal.

'Why were such people born?' she used to say to herself at the sight of
some rural gathering. On the rare occasions when she went to a party
she was always the first to leave; boredom seemed to overtake her
before she had been anywhere very long. Entertainments, so-called,
were horribly wearisome to her, and she never for an instant believed
those people who professed to have enjoyed a pleasant party. Parties
were all stupid, she thought; just as most people were stupid, and most
food was badly cooked. Th