But she was not there. Through her absorption in her mother, some large, essential part of herself had gone. It had not been so when her father died; what he had absorbed was given back to her, transferred to her mother. All her memories of her mother were joined to the memory of this now irrecoverable self. She tried to reinstate herself through grief; she sheltered behind her bereavement, affecting a more profound seclusion, abhorring strangers; she was more than ever the reserved, fastidious daughter of Hilton Frean. She had always thought of herself as different from Connie and Sarah, living with a superior, intellectual life. She turned to the books she had read with her mother, Dante, Browning, Carlyle, and Ruskin, the biographies of Great Men, trying to retrace the footsteps of her lost self, to revive the forgotten thrill. But it was no use. One day she found herself reading the Dedication of _The Ring and the Book_ over and over again, without taking in its meaning, without any remembrance of its poignant secret. “‘And all a wonder and a wild desire’--Mamma loved that.” She thought she loved it too; but what she loved was the dark-green book she had seen in her mother’s long, white hands, and the sound of her mother’s voice reading. She had followed her mother’s mind with strained attention and anxiety, smiling when she smiled, but with no delight and no admiration of her own. If only she could have remembered. It was only through memory that she could reinstate herself. She had a horror of the empty house. Her friends advised her to leave it, but she had a horror of removal, of change. She loved the rooms that had held her mother, the chair she had sat on, the white, fluted cup she had drunk from in her illness. She clung to the image of her mother; and always beside it, shadowy and pathetic, she discerned the image of her lost self. When the horror of emptiness came over her, she dressed herself in her black, with delicate care and precision, and visited her friends. Even in moments of no intention she would find herself knocking at Lizzie’s door or Sarah’s or Connie Pennefather’s. If they were not in she would call again and again, till she found them. She would sit for hours, talking, spinning out the time. She began to look forward to these visits. Wonderful. The sweet peas she had planted had come up. Hitherto Harriett had looked on the house and garden as parts of the space that contained her without belonging to her. She had had no sense of possession. This morning she was arrested by the thought that the plot she had planted was hers. The house and garden were hers. She began to take an interest in them. She found that by a system of punctual movements she could give to her existence the reasonable appearance of an aim.