She fell silent, her eyes fixed broodingly upon the fire, eyes that looked strangely young. Peter, silent too, was remembering that day before his grandfather's death; remembering Mrs. Caldwell's presence in the house, and the indescribable sense of some other presence also. He had felt it so strongly, that other presence, that the whole house had seemed to him to be pervaded and thrilled by it. His father was living then, and they two had spent the afternoon in the library, while Mrs. Caldwell had sat with his grandfather in the room above. He had said to his father--he recalled it quite clearly--"I feel something--_something_--in the very air." And his father had appeared startled and had replied, "Perhaps death is in the air." But Peter knew now that it had not been death he had felt; that it had not been death that had filled the air as if with rushing wings and shooting stars and invisible, ineffable glories. It had not been death; it had been love. And glancing at Mrs. Caldwell's musing eyes, something like envy came into his own. He went to her, knelt, and kissed her thin old hand. "After all, you _had_ love," he murmured. And then, "I wish you had been my grandmother. I _wish_ you had." "Oh, Peter!" she cried. "Oh, Peter! Peter!" And suddenly her arms were around his neck. As she clung to him, her tears on his face and her heart's secret in his hands, he almost told her; he almost said what he had resolved never to say. And yet he did not. "He's never loved her," concluded Mrs. Caldwell when he had gone. "There was a moment when he looked as if--but he's never loved Sheila. If he'd loved her--ever--he would have told me." CHAPTER XIII Had Mrs. Caldwell seen Peter pacing the floor of his little hotel room that night, she would have been less certain that he did not love Sheila. She had said to him, "There's nothing so tragic as the truth--when it comes too late!" And it was this tragedy with which Peter grappled now.