“I might have known,” she said; “I might have known that--that you would only say the right thing. You couldn't say the wrong thing, Betty.” Betty bent over her and spoke almost yearningly. “Whatever happens,” she said, “we will take care that mother is not hurt. She's too kind--she's too good--she's too tender.” “That is what I have remembered,” said Lady Anstruthers brokenly. “She used to hold me on her lap when I was quite grown up. Oh! her soft, warm arms--her warm shoulder! I have so wanted her.” “She has wanted you,” Betty answered. “She thinks of you just as she did when she held you on her lap.” “But if she saw me now--looking like this! If she saw me! Sometimes I have even been glad to think she never would.” “She will.” Betty's tone was cool and clear. “But before she does I shall have made you look like yourself.” Lady Anstruthers' thin hand closed on her plucked leaves convulsively, and then opening let them drop upon the stone of the terrace. “We shall never see each other. It wouldn't be possible,” she said. “And there is no magic in the world now, Betty. You can't bring back----” “Yes, you can,” said Bettina. “And what used to be called magic is only the controlled working of the law and order of things in these days. We must talk it all over.” Lady Anstruthers became a little pale. “What?” she asked, low and nervously, and Betty saw her glance sideways at the windows of the room which opened on to the terrace. Betty took her hand and drew her down into a chair. She sat near her and looked her straight in the face. “Don't be frightened,” she said. “I tell you there is no need to be frightened. We are not living in the Middle Ages. There is a policeman even in Stornham village, and we are within four hours of London, where there are thousands.” Lady Anstruthers tried to laugh, but did not succeed very well, and her forehead flushed. “I don't quite know why I seem so nervous,” she said. “It's very silly of me.” She was still timid enough to cling to some rag of pretence, but Betty knew that it would fall away. She did the wisest possible thing, which was to make an apparently impersonal remark. “I want you to go over the place with me and show me everything. Walls and fences and greenhouses and outbuildings must not be allowed to crumble away.” “What?” cried Rosy. “Have you seen all that already?” She actually stared at her. “How practical and--and American!” “To see that a wall has fallen when you find yourself obliged to walk round a pile of grass-grown brickwork?” said Betty. Lady Anstruthers still softly stared. “What--what are you thinking of?” she asked. “Thinking that it is all too beautiful----” Betty's look swept the loveliness spread about her, “too beautiful and too valuable to be allowed to lose its value and its beauty.” She turned her eyes back to Rosy and the deep dimple near her mouth showed itself delightfully. “It is a throwing away of capital,” she added.