Her delicate hand flew swiftly to and fro; for all the ill-light and the cold, her face was absorbed, almost contented. When the light task was completed, she held the garment up before the candle with a little smile; she was shuddering in the bitter draught that crept round the attic; but she did not know it; her lips moved as if she spoke to herself; she drew the doll down and removing its coat, carefully fitted on the shirt; it was too large and hung stiffly on the unbending figure; but Lady Dalrymple held the doll out at arm’s length with a wistful face; then caught it to her poor empty heart and rocked it to and fro with passionate hands clasping the inanimate rag. “Harry,” her cold lips murmured, “so you used to sit—it feels like you—so—then your arms would go round my neck—slowly.” She quivered into a smile at the recollection. “Then you would lift your face up—all soft and warm—ah, my dear—my dear—” Her great moist eyes turned to the thing in her arms; she saw the staring glassy eyes, the hard wax face and rose, setting it aside. “It is a lie,” she said with the quiet of agony. “You are dead.” She laid her face against the wall and woe shook her whole body. “God!—are these things just?” she said with clenched hands. “Is it right these things should be?—that I should live to think upon his grave?” Her voice echoed through the bare rafters; a sudden gust of wind blew the window open and the candle out; she gave a cry of terror and rushed from the room, shutting the door behind her. At a swift regardless pace she came down the stairs till she reached a landing where a dim lamp hung. She paused there a moment as if she had forgotten where she would go, and while she hesitated a door was opened and the Master of Stair stepped out. His wife shrank back against the wall, but he stopped and their eyes met. He noticed her face, her fallen hair, the dust upon her dress. “Who are you? Where have you been?” he asked, starting back. Her side she drew herself still further away; her lips formed a half-smile; very foolish, very tragic. He swept past her down the stairs, fiercely as though the Furies were after him; the clatter of his sword on the marble echoed through the empty house. His wife had reminded him of his sister Janet, with her blank blue eyes, her soft white face and her curious crouching attitude, like an animal expecting the whip. He gave a wild laugh; for that one startled moment he had thought it was his sister, and she dead twenty years! His thoughts were wandering; he laughed again recklessly and flinging his head back, looked up. Lady Dalrymple had come to the head of the stairs and was peering down, her hands clasped behind her—surely it was his sister—and the house was haunted as he had known—known— So strong was the feeling that the man felt the word forming on his lips, “Janet!”