“I learnt many things there, Rosamund,” he told her quietly. “I learnt a little of the difference between right doing and wrongdoing. I learnt, too, that all the passions of life burn themselves out, save one alone.” She twisted the girdle of her dressing-gown in her fingers for a moment. His last speech seemed to have been outside the orbit of her comprehension or interest. “You need not be afraid of me any more, Everard,” she said, a little pathetically. “I have no fear of you,” he answered. “Then why don't you bring your chair forward and come and sit a little nearer to me?” she asked, raising her eyes. “Do you hear the wind, how it shrieks at us? Oh, I am afraid!” He moved forward to her side, and took her hand gently in his. Her fingers responded at once to his pressure. When he spoke, he scarcely recognised his own voice. It seemed to him thick and choked. “The wind shall not hurt you, or anything else,” he promised. “I have come back to take care of you.” She sighed, smiled like a tired child, and her eyes closed as her head fell farther back amongst the cushions. “Stay just like that, please,” she begged. “Something quite new is coming to me. I am resting. It is the sweetest rest I ever felt. Don't move, Everard. Let my fingers stay in yours--so.” The candles burned down in their sockets, the wind rose to greater furies, and died away only as the dawn broke through the storm clouds. A pale light stole into the room. Still the woman slept, and still her fingers seemed to keep their clutch upon his hand. Her breathing was all the time soft and regular. Her silky black eyelashes lay motionless upon her pale cheeks. Her mouth--a very perfectly shaped mouth--rested in quiet lines. Somehow he realised that about this slumber there was a new thing. With hot eyes and aching limbs he sat through the night. Dream after dream rose up and passed away before that little background of tapestried wall. When she opened her eyes and looked at him, the same smile parted her lips as the smile which had come there when she had passed away to sleep. “I am so rested,” she murmured. “I feel so well. I have had dreams, beautiful dreams.” The fire had burned out, and the room was chilly. “You must go back to your own room now,” he said. Very slowly her fingers relaxed. She held out her arms. “Carry me,” she begged. “I am only half awake. I want to sleep again.” He lifted her up. Her fingers closed around his neck, her head fell back with a little sigh of content. He tried the folding doors, and, finding some difficulty in opening them carried her out into the corridor, into her own room, and laid her upon the untouched bed. “You are quite comfortable?” he asked. “Quite,” she murmured drowsily. “Kiss me, Everard.” Her hands drew his face down. His lips rested upon her forehead. Then he drew the bedclothes over her and fled. CHAPTER XIII