“Be very glad then,” said I, for my soul was torn open within me. “Forgive me!” She was still, and I went back to my sorrow and my joy. “It was because I loved them so,” she said at last, brokenly. “_That_ was why it was, even from the first—even before I knew that they—they were all I should ever have. And I loved them so!” She stretched out her arms to the shadows and the shadows within the shadow. “They came because I loved them—because I needed them. I—I must have made them come. Was that wrong, think you?” “No—no.” “I—I grant you that the toys and—and all that sort of thing were nonsense, but—but I used to so hate empty rooms myself when I was little.” She pointed to the gallery. “And the passages all empty. … And how could I ever bear the garden door shut? Suppose——” “Don’t! For pity’s sake, don’t!” I cried. The twilight had brought a cold rain with gusty squalls that plucked at the leaded windows. “And the same thing with keeping the fire in all night. _I_ don’t think it so foolish—do you?” I looked at the broad brick hearth, saw, through tears I believe, that there was no unpassable iron on or near it, and bowed my head. “I did all that and lots of other things—just to make believe. Then they came. I heard them, but I didn’t know that they were not mine by right till Mrs. Madden told me——” “The butler’s wife? What?” “One of them—I heard—she saw. And knew. Hers! _Not_ for me. I didn’t know at first. Perhaps I was jealous. Afterwards, I began to understand that it was only because I loved them, not because——… Oh, you _must_ bear or lose,” she said piteously. “There is no other way—and yet they love me. They must! Don’t they?” There was no sound in the room except the lapping voices of the fire, but we two listened intently, and she at least took comfort from what she heard. She recovered herself and half rose. I sat still in my chair by the screen. “Don’t think me a wretch to whine about myself like this, but—but I’m all in the dark, you know, and _you_ can see.” In truth I could see, and my vision confirmed me in my resolve, though that was like the very parting of spirit and flesh. Yet a little longer I would stay since it was the last time. “You think it is wrong, then?” she cried sharply, though I had said nothing. “Not for you. A thousand times no. For you it is right…. I am grateful to you beyond words. For me it would be wrong. For me only….” “Why?” she said, but passed her hand before her face as she had done at our second meeting in the wood. “Oh, I see,” she went on simply as a child. “For you it would be wrong.” Then with a little indrawn laugh, “and, d’you remember, I called you lucky—once—at first. You who must never come here again!” She left me to sit a little longer by the screen, and I heard the sound of her feet die out along the gallery above. MRS. BATHURST FROM LYDEN’S “IRENIUS” ACT III. Sc. II.