When her anger had somewhat cooled down—never a lengthy process with Aspasia—she began to feel a sort of wonder at herself. What, indeed, had become of the pale, gallant ghost that she had set up to worship in the shrine of her heart? Gone, gone after the way of ghosts, before the first ray of real sunshine—Bethune’s hand-clasp, his softened glance, his rare smile. With the realisation of her own fickleness came another, so overwhelming in its suggestion, that all else was swept away by it. She was in love! ... In love for the first time, really, unmistakably, Aspasia Cuningham, who had meant to devote her whole life to her art. Bethune wondered, in his blundering masculine way, what blight had fallen in the little dining-room, to render their wontedly harmonious meeting of the three at meals so constrained that day. But when, later, Lady Gerardine and her niece found themselves once more alone, the memory of her curious resentment seemed to have faded from the elder woman’s mind, to have been erased by a fresh tide of thought, as footprints on the sands are washed away by the waves. Old Mary had been with her in the gloaming; old Mary, with her tender memories of the dead past, her mystic whispers of present hauntings. "Eh, ma’am, he’s been very near to us, these days," she said. "Last night, now, I heard his step come down the passage, as plain, as plain as ever I heard anything. I always knew his step among a thousand, ma’am, from a child; a clean, clear step, with never a slur nor a slouch; not as most people walk." "Oh, Mary," cried Lady Gerardine, a thrill, half exquisite, half terrible, running through her, "why does he come back now?" "Why, ma’am, it’s because of you, I’m thinking," said the old woman, simply. "You’re just calling him back to you." "Oh, Mary!" "Does that frighten you, ma’am? Doesn’t it make you glad? Why, the other evening, they had not lit the lamps yet in the hall, and I felt him pass me—his own presence, just as I feel yours there. Nothing of the grave, of the cold about it, but warm, comfort—Heaven’s warmth. Oh, God is good, ma’am! He makes all easy." "God is good," said Rosamond to herself, weighing the words, as she sat alone. "Is God good?" And within her some voice of truth answered her: answered that God had been good, even to her; had meant well with her; very well, even in her bereavement, could she but have taken His ruling as these women of Harry’s old home. Thus, when she was found by Aspasia, there was no room in her heart for any lesser thought. *CHAPTER XI*