She went to see how May was getting on, and in company they undressed, as they used to undress before Jenny went on the stage. Soon both of them in long white nightgowns, each with a golden candle, pattered in once more to marvel at young Frank. "Oh, I must have him in bed with me, May." "Well, why don't you?" Carefully they lifted him, and, warm with sun-dyed sleep, laid him in Jenny's cool bed. "Light the nightlight, there's a love," said Jenny. "Good night." "Good night," whispered May, fading like a ghost through the black doorway, leaving the tall room to Jenny and Frank. Tree shadows, conjured by the moon, waved on the walls, but very faintly, for the nightlight burned with steady flame in the opalescent saucer. Jenny settled herself to think what she should say to Maurice next morning. But soon she forgot all about Maurice, and "I'd rather like to have a little girl," was her last thought before she went dreaming. Chapter XLVIII: _Carni Vale_ Jenny woke up the next morning in a gray land of mist. A sea-fog had come in to obliterate Trewinnard and even the sparkling month of June, creating a new and impalpable world, a strange undated season. Above the elm trees and the hill-tops the fog floated and swayed in vaporous eddies. Jenny's first impulse was to postpone the meeting on the cliffs, and yet the day somehow suited the enterprise. Shrouded fittingly, she would face whatever ghosts Maurice had power to raise. "I'm going for a walk," she told May, "by myself. I want to tell Maurice not to hang about here any more because it gets on my nerves." "I'll look after Frank when you're gone," said May. "Don't let him eat any more wool off that lamb of his, will you?" "All right." "I sha'n't be long. Or I don't expect so." "If he comes back from Plymouth before you come in, where shall I say you've gone?" May asked. "Oh, tell him 'Rats!' I can't help his troubles. So long," said Jenny emphatically. "Say 'ta--ta' nicely to your mother, young Frank," commanded Aunt May. As Jenny faded into the mist, the boy hammered his farewells upon the window-pane; and for awhile in the colorless air she saw his rosy cheeks burning like lamps, or like the love for him in her own heart. Before she turned up the drive, she waited to listen for the click and tinkle of Granfa's horticulture, but there was no sound of his spade. Farther along she met Thomas. "Morning! Mrs. Trewhella!" "Morning, young Thomas." "Going for a walk, are 'ee?" "On the cliffs," Jenny nodded. "You be careful how you do walk there. I wouldn't like for 'ee to fall over." "Don't you worry. I'll take jolly good care I don't do that." "Well, anybody ought to be careful on they cliffs. Nasty old place that is on a foggy morning." Then as she became in a few steps a wraith, he chanted in farewell courtesy, "Mrs. Trewhella!"