Lady Chavasse saw them too--though perhaps not exactly in the way he meant. Never was the vision, of what might have been, more vividly before her than now as he spoke. She saw him, a hale happy man; his wife Mary, their children, a goodly flock, all at the Grange, and herself first amongst them, reigning paramount, _rejoicing_ in her good and dutiful daughter-in-law. Oh, what a contrast between that vision and reality! A repressed groan escaped her lips; she coughed to smother it. "Mother!" "Well, Geoffry?" "You need not have suppressed my last letter to Mary--the letter of explanation I wrote when I quitted her and the Grange. You might have been sure of me--that I would be true to my word to you." No answer. There was a great deal that she would not suppress, besides the letter, if the time had to come over again. The log sparkled and crackled and threw its jets of flame upwards; but no other noise disturbed the room's stillness. "Mother!" "Well, Geoffry?" "I should like the child, little Arthur, to have my watch and its appendages. Have you any objection?" "None." "It will be looked upon, you know, as a token of remembrance to the little fellow who had so sharp an illness through my horse." "Yes." "And--I have two desks, you know. The old one of common stained wood I wish sent to Miss Layne, locked as it is. The key I will enclose in a note. Let them be sent to her when I am dead." "It shall be done, Geoffry." "There's not much in the desk. Just a few odds and ends of papers; mementoes of the short period when I was happy--though I ought not to have been. Nothing of value; except a ring that I bought for her at Worcester at the time, and which she would not take." "I promise it, Geoffry. I will do all you wish." "Thank you. You have ever been my loving friend, mother." "_Ever_, Geoffry?" "Well--you did for the best there, mother; though it was a mistake. You acted for what you thought my welfare." "Would you not like to see her, Geoffry?" "I have seen her and bidden her farewell. It was the afternoon I went to Duffham's and you said that I stayed out too late. And now I think I'll lie down on the sofa, and get, if I can, a bit of sleep; I feel tired. To-morrow I will talk about you and Rachel--and what will be best for you both. I wish to my heart, for your sake and hers, that Rachel had borne a son; I am thinking of you both daily, and of what you will do when I am gone." "I shall never know pleasure in life again, Geoffry," she cried, with a heartbroken sob. "Life for me will be, henceforth, one of mortification and misery." "But it will not last for ever. Oh, mother! how merciful God is!--to give us the blessed hope of an eternal life of perfect happiness, after all the mistakes and tribulations and disappointments of this! My darling mother! we shall all be there in sweet companionship for ever." * * * * *