Lady Wantley raised herself in bed. She put her arms round the younger woman and kissed her. 'I know how it is with you,' she whispered, 'and, oh, I am so glad! Do you know how long I myself had to wait?' And then, receiving no answer, she added: 'Nineteen years! That was the only shadow on my singularly happy, blessed life; but it was a shadow which sometimes darkened everything. I only once spoke to him--to my husband, I mean--on the matter, for in those days we women seldom spoke of our feelings. I had been ill, some trifling ailment, and he came and sat by me in this room, just where you are sitting now, and suddenly I told him of my longing for a child. I was foolish and repining, alas! for you must know, my dear, that I grieved for his sake as well as for my own. I have often thought, this last year, lying here, of what he answered. He looked at me so kindly. "Am I not more to thee than ten sons?" he asked; and I felt infinitely comforted. 'And then'--Cecily spoke softly--'Penelope was born?' 'Ah no, not then!' said Lady Wantley, with the literalness which sometimes suddenly came to her. 'Many years had to go by first. But when she came it was on Christmas morning.' She shaded her eyes with her left hand. 'Not a day like this,' she whispered. 'It was a warm, sunny, green Christmas that year; I remember it all so well. Ludovic's mother came up to see me after church. You know we were never really intimate; I fear she did not like me. But she was very kind that day. All women feel in sympathy with one another on such days, and Mrs. Wantley's love for her own son made her know what my daughter would be to me.' Lady Wantley hesitated, and then, as if speaking to herself, added: 'How often I have looked at my beloved child--my beautiful gifted Penelope--and prayed God to comfort childless women.' Then suddenly the speaker's face contracted, and she looked at Cecily as if wishing to compel her to speak truly. 'Is it well with my child?' she asked. 'Tell me what you think, what you know of her? I know you love her dearly.' 'I know nothing, and cannot tell what to think.' The answer was slow, reluctant, and truthful. Lady Wantley turned and searched under her pillow. Silently she handed Cecily a letter, wistfully watched her read it. 'Doubtless she writes more fully to you, her friend, than to me, her mother,' she said at last; but Cecily remained silent while glancing perplexed, over the short, dry, though not unaffectionate note. 'There is a postscript on the other side of the sheet. Perhaps you knew already that David Winfrith was with her?' On the last sheet of foreign note-paper were written in Mrs. Robinson's clear, pointed handwriting the words: 'David Winfrith is in Bombay. He is coming up to see me in a few days.'