They went back to Mount Royal, where all things had gone as if by clockwork during their absence, under Miss Bridgeman's sage administration. To relieve her loneliness, Christabel had invited two of the younger sisters from Shepherd's Bush to spend the spring months at the Manor House--and these damsels--tall, vigorous, active--had revelled exceedingly in all the luxuries and pleasures of a rural life under the most advantageous circumstances. They had scoured the hills--had rifled the hedges of their abundant wild flowers--had made friends with all Christabel's chosen families in the surrounding cottages--had fallen in love with the curate who was doing duty at Minster and Forrabury--had been buffeted by the winds and tossed by the waves in many a delightful boating excursion--had climbed the rocky steeps of Tintagel so often that they seemed to know every stone of that ruined citadel--and now had gone home to Shepherd's Bush, their cheeks bright with country bloom, and their meagre trunks overshadowed by a gigantic hamper of country produce. Christabel felt a bitter pang as the carriage drew up to the porch, and she saw the neat little figure in a black gown waiting to receive her--thinking of that tall and noble form which should have stood there--the welcoming arms which should have received her, rewarding and blessing her for her self-sacrifice. The sacrifice had been made, but death had swallowed up the blessing and reward: and in that intermediate land of slumber where the widow lay there could be no knowledge of gain--no satisfaction in the thought of her son's happiness: even granting that Leonard was supremely happy in his marriage, a fact which Christabel deemed open to doubt. No, there had been nothing gained, except that Diana Tregonell's last days had been full of peace--her one cherished hope realized on the very threshold of the tomb. Christabel tried to take comfort from this knowledge. "If I had denied her to the last, if she had died with her wish ungratified, I think I should be still more sorry for her loss," she told herself. There was bitter pain in the return to a home where that one familiar figure had been the central point, the very axis of life. Jessie led the new Mrs. Tregonell into the panelled parlour, where every object was arranged just as in the old days; the tea-table on the left of the wide fireplace, the large low armchair and the book-table on the right. The room was bright with white and crimson may, azaleas, tea-roses. "I thought it was best for you to get accustomed to the rooms without her," said Jessie, in a low voice, as she placed Christabel in the widow's old chair, and helped to take off her hat and mantle, "and I thought you would not like anything changed." "Not for worlds. The house is a part of her, in my mind. It was she who planned everything as it now is--just adding as many new things as were needful to brighten the old. I will never alter a detail unless I am absolutely obliged."