Julie asked herself, hurriedly: "How much does she know? What has she heard?" But aloud she gently said: "I thought you must have heard of me. Lord Uredale told me he had written--his father wished it--to Lady Blanche. Your mother and mine were sisters." The girl shyly withdrew her eyes. "Yes, mother told me." There was a moment's silence. The mingled fear and recklessness which had accompanied Julie's action disappeared from her mind. In the girl's manner there was neither jealousy nor hatred, only a young shrinking and reserve. "May I walk with you a little?" "Please do. Are you staying at Montreux?" "No; we are at Charnex--and you?" "We came up two days ago to a little _pension_ at Brent. I wanted to be among the fields, now the narcissuses are out. If it were warm weather we should stay, but mother is afraid of the cold for me. I have been ill." "I heard that," said Julie, in a voice gravely kind and winning. "That was why your mother could not come home." The girl's eyes suddenly filled with tears. "No; poor mother! I wanted her to go--we had a good nurse--but she would not leave me, though she was devoted to my grandfather. She--" "She is always anxious about you?" "Yes. My health has been a trouble lately, and since father died--" "She has only you." They walked on a few paces in silence. Then the girl looked up eagerly. "You saw grandfather at the last? Do tell me about it, please. My uncles write so little." Julie obeyed with difficulty. She had not realized how hard it would be for her to talk of Lord Lackington. But she described the old man's gallant dying as best she could; while Aileen Moffatt listened with that manner at once timid and rich in feeling which seemed to be her characteristic. As they neared the top of the hill where the road begins to incline towards Charnex, Julie noticed signs of fatigue in her companion. "You have been an invalid," she said. "You ought not to go farther. May I take you home? Would your mother dislike to see me?" The girl paused perceptibly. "Ah, there she is!" They had turned towards Brent, and Julie saw coming towards them, with somewhat rapid steps, a small, elderly lady, gray-haired, her features partly hidden by her country hat. A thrill passed through Julie. This was the sister whose name her mother had mentioned in her last hour. It was as though something of her mother, something that must throw light upon that mother's life and being, were approaching her along this Swiss road. But the lady in question, as she neared them, looked with surprise, not unmingled with hauteur, upon her daughter and the stranger beside her. "Aileen, why did you go so far? You promised me only to be a quarter of an hour." "I am not tired, mother. Mother, this is Mrs. Delafield. You remember, Uncle Uredale wrote--" Lady Blanche Moffatt stood still. Once more a fear swept through Julie's mind, and this time it stayed. After an evident hesitation, a hand was coldly extended.