“Ay, well, it’s your own affair, after all,” she replied, at length, with a touch of dignity, but nothing worse. The speech, however, was too reminiscent of Emma to be perfectly pleasant, and the visitor winced. Later, thinking things over, it seemed to her strange that she should more than once have noticed this echo of Emma in the totally different Mrs. Bell. It was as if the grip of Emma’s mind upon hers had been working silently even here, making the same subtle demand upon her that it had made insidiously all day.... “You’ll drop in again, though, for a cup o’ tea?” Mrs. Bell, still loth to lose sight of the treasure, followed both it and its owner to the door. “Eh, but the folks I’ve seen walking away with that very same key! First was Mrs. Wells, as went and died of cancer the very next year; and then Mrs. Saddleback, as broke her leg in the first week. Then there was Mrs. Green ... nay, likely, ’twas Mrs. Brown. Ter’ble bad neighbour she was an’ all ... nay, likely, ’twas Mrs. Green....” Mrs. Clapham had withdrawn herself now, with the skill of her class, but Mrs. Bell was still at her heels. “Then there was Mrs. Phipps,” she was saying lustily, “her as is just gone. A right good soul she was an’ all, barring that she was a bit cracked. Still, there’s folks _do_ say as when them dies as has lost their minds, it’s happen only the body as gets took away, and the mind, happen, stays behind.... “I don’t reckon it’ll do me much harm if it has!” Mrs. Clapham threw at her cheerfully, as she hurried away. “I’ll just have a look round and see what’s what; and if you can spare me a cup o’ tea, I’ll be right glad of it when I’m through.” She left Mrs. Bell still looking longingly after the key, and, turning the corner, arrived at her own door. Michaelmas daisies and asters lined the flagged path at either side, purple, clean-coloured faces not yet touched by the frost; but beside the door itself was what she knew to be a flowering currant, that first flambeau of glory which Nature flings to us in the Spring. She had wanted one all her life, and here was one set for her at her very door. When it flowered again in the Spring it would be just as if old Mr. T. had made her a personal present. More than ever it seemed to her as if the whole thing were emphatically “meant.” With a shaking hand she inserted the key. It turned smoothly and kindly with a welcoming click.... CHAPTER III