She returned more slowly than she had gone. It was like a dream this walk, as though her spirit, awake, alive to sight and sound, smiling and childish, were out under the sky, while in the dark, sad house the heavily throbbing heart waited for its return. This waiting heart seemed to come out to meet her as once more she saw the sycamores dark on the sky and saw beyond them the low stone house. The pearly, the crystalline interlude, drew to a close. She knew that in passing from it she passed into deep, accepted tragedy. The sycamores had grown so tall since she first came to live at Charlock House that the foliage made a high roof and only sparkling chinks of sky showed through. The path before her was like the narrow aisle of a cathedral. It was very dark and silent. She stood still, remembering the day when, after her husband's first visit to her, she had come here in the late afternoon and had known the mingled revelation of divine and human holiness. She stood still, thinking of it, and wondered intently, looking down. It was gone, that radiant human image, gone for ever. The son, to whom her heart now clung, was stern. She was alone. Every prop, every symbol of the divine love had been taken from her. But, so bereft, it was not, after the long pause of wonder, in weakness and abandonment that she stood still in the darkness and closed her eyes. It was suffering, but it was not fear; it was longing, but it was not loneliness. And as, in her wrecked girlhood, she had held out her hands, blessed and receiving, she held them out now, blessed, though sacrificing all she had. But her uplifted face, white and rapt, was now without a smile. Suddenly she knew that someone was near her. She opened her eyes and saw Augustine standing at some little distance looking at her. It seemed natural to see him there, waiting to lead her into the ordeal. She went towards him at once. "Is it time?" she said. "Am I late?" Augustine was looking intently at her. "It isn't half-past nine yet," he said. "I've had my breakfast. I didn't know you had gone out till just now when I went to your room and found it empty." She saw then in his eyes that he had been frightened. He took her hand and she yielded it to him and they went up towards the house. "I have had such a long walk," she said. "Isn't it a beautiful morning." "Yes; I suppose so," said Augustine. As they walked he did not take his eyes off his mother's face. "Aren't you tired?" he asked. "Not at all. I slept well." "Your shoes are quite wet," said Augustine, looking down at them. "Yes; the meadows were thick with dew." "You didn't keep to the path?" "Yes;--no, I remember."--she looked down at her shoes, trying, obediently, to satisfy him, "I turned aside to look at the cows." "Will you please change your shoes at once?" "I'll go up now and change them. And will you wait for me in the drawing-room, Augustine."