“Don’t you think your master looks well, Mrs. Havergill?” she said quite gaily. Mrs. Havergill sighed. “He do look well,” she admitted; “but there, ma’am, there’s no saying—it isn’t looks as we can go by. In my own family now, there was my sister Sarah. She was a fine, fresh-looking woman. Old Dr. Jones he met her out walking, as it might be on the Thursday. “‘Well, Miss Sarah, you _do_ look well,’ he says—and there, ’tweren’t but the following Tuesday as she was took. ‘Who’d ha’ thought it,’ he says. ‘In the midst of life we are in death,’ and that’s a true word. And my brother ’Enry now, ’e never look so well in all ’is life as when he was laying in ’is coffin.” Elizabeth could afford to laugh. “Oh, Mrs. Havergill, do be cheerful,” she implored; “it would be so much better for you.” Mrs. Havergill looked injured. “I don’t see as we’re sent into this world to be cheerful,” she said, with the air of one who reproves unchristian levity. “Oh, but we are—we really are,” said Elizabeth. Mrs. Havergill shook her head. “Let them be cheerful as has no troubles,” she remarked. “I’ve ’ad mine, and a-plenty,” and she went out of the room, sighing. Mary ran in to see her sister quite early on the morning after their return. “Well, Liz—no, let me _look_ at you—I’ll kiss you in a minute. Are you _happy_—you wrote dreadful guide-book letters, that I tore up and put in the fire.” “Oh, Molly.” “Yes, they were—exactly like Baedeker, only worse. All about mountains and flowers and the nice air, and ‘David is quite well again.’ As if _anyone_ wanted to hear about mountains and flowers from a person on her honeymoon. Are you _happy_, Liz?” “Don’t I look happy?” said Elizabeth laughing. “Yes, you do.” Mary looked at her considering. “You _do_. Is it all right, Liz, _really_ all right?” “Yes, it’s really all right, Molly,” said Elizabeth, and then she began to talk of other things. Mary kissed her very affectionately when she went away, but at the door she turned, frowning. “I expect you wrote _reams_ to Agneta,” she said, and then shut the door quickly before Elizabeth had time to answer. David was out when Mary came, and it so happened that for two or three days they did not meet. He had come to dread the meeting. His passion for Mary was dead. He was afraid lest her presence, her voice, should raise the dead and bring it forth again in its garment of glamour and pain. Then on Sunday he came in to find Mary sitting there with Elizabeth in the twilight. She jumped up as he came in, and held out her hand.