They had been parted little more than a year, and yet how changed were both! “You have suffered, Heather,” Bessie said; and then she took the dear face between her hands and turned it so that the firelight might fall upon it. “Yes—Lally,” the other answered, and her tears began to flow once more. “It was hearing about her brought me to you. I must see her, Heather, though she has forgotten me, of course.” “If she have, it must be very recently,” was the reply. “How did you hear of her illness?” “From Ned,” Bessie answered: “I did not know anything about your having left the Hollow, and went there, hoping to be able to see and speak to you alone, but I found the place deserted—oh, it did not seem like Berrie Down any longer!—and then Ned told me Lally was very ill. So, as I could not rest without looking in my child’s face—she was almost mine, Heather——” With a sob, Bessie broke off. The past came back to her as she spoke—the past, with its sunshine, its purity, its peace. She thought of the evening Heather returned from London—the evening when this poor story opened—when she and the child sat upon the grass dividing their bonbons, and a glory lay over the landscape—a glory wrought out of the beams of the setting sun which sank to rest as she and Heather walked slowly towards the house, talking of Gilbert Harcourt and her own future. Counted by time, that evening did not lie so very far back in the past—but computed by events, it seemed to Bessie as though half a lifetime had come and gone since then. It was like looking back to childhood from the confines of middle age; it was like recalling one’s youth when tottering feebly to the grave. It was so far away, and yet so near. It was as though for years and years she had been climbing to the summit of some steep hill, till suddenly she reached a point where she was able to pause and glance behind, and from whence she could see close to her, and yet separated by all that lapse of time, by all the toil and labour of the ascent, the happy valley she had left. There, steeped in the sunshine of old, were spread out before her the plains of her earthly heaven. Once again she felt the breath of the sweet west wind upon her cheek; she beheld the westeria with its wealth of leaves; she saw the windows of those pleasant rooms wreathed with roses, festooned with honeysuckles. There was a great peace in the air, and the woman whose face had the sad forecasting expression walked beside her over the sward. There had been a little jealousy between them then; but that was gone and past—passed like winter’s frosts, melted like December’s snow. And this was how they met once more, with the child dear to both of them so ill, that, had Bessie returned but a few hours later, she might never have looked upon her living again. Quietly they passed upstairs together; with silent feet they entered the room where Lally lay, with Agnes still keeping watch beside her.