Was this my old bachelor, or rather widower domain, which used to look so grim and forlorn, all echoes and musty odours, where Ralph and I used to stroll about together in an aimless fashion, always, I fancy, feeling a certain amount of relief when we got back to bustling London, which, however noisy and grimy, is life-full? This pleasant, well-lighted house, where, thanks to mammy’s arrangements, bright patches of colour met the eye at every turn; deftly placed bits of china, or banks of plants glowing with bloom. I felt self-reproach. No, I have not lived as I ought to have lived. I have taught my boy to live beside a tomb. I went down to the drawing-room. I was gazing at the fading sunset out of the open window, after wondering at the pretty effects of light made by lamps set about the room with coloured shades, when I started—it was _Lilia’s_ laugh again. _She_ came into the room; she was dressed in glistening white, with lilies at her breast, and Rover was leaping about her. “Your dog is very friendly,” she said, and she patted the obtrusive animal, which was panting with pleasure. “He is not generally so,” I said, with a scared sensation. In the dim light it recalled Lilia and her Nero too forcibly. “He is mostly surly to strangers.” “He reminds me of some dog, but I cannot remember where I have seen the dog,” she said, thoughtfully, coming to me at the window, but her attention was arrested by the sunset. What happy minutes those were, as we stood side by side gazing at the monarch of the sky sinking into his purple bed! (Those were her words, not mine.) It was delightful to see her look bright as she sat by my side at dinner. In the evening she played her guitar, and sang to it. It was a peep into the country of her birth. I could imagine the hidalgos and donnas pacing amid the picturesque buildings, and many other things. When Mercedes, during this visit to me, was purely Spanish, I almost ceased to believe in the identity I so firmly hold in my own mind as hers. Next morning I took my guests about the place; carefully avoiding the terrace. I had a plan about the terrace. In the afternoon Mercedes and I, Lady Forwood and the prince, drove in the waggonette. I took them to see the ruins of an ancient abbey. Lady Forwood absorbed the prince’s attention—(for such a born boor as he is, I must say he behaved very decently)—and I was able to tell my love the old tales of the bygone monastery, and to watch the changing expressions that flit across her pure face, like the clouds across a summer sky. What intense reverence this child-woman has for all that is holy! As we walked through the ruins of the monkish chapel I was shamed by her hushed, almost awestruck manner. “_God_ has lived here,” she said, casting a longing look back as I removed the hurdle, placed to keep out the sheep, for her to pass out. “And it is a ruin!” “God is everywhere,” I said.