For, now that it was too late, he did want her. His whole mind had changed. He no longer thought of her with resentment. He thought, with a passionate adoration and regret, of her beauty, her goodness, and her love for him. What if she _had_ kept him with her? It had been, as Effie had said, because she loved him. How did he know that if she had let him go he would have been good for anything? What on earth could he have been but the third-rate organist he was? He remembered the happiness he had had with her before he had loved Effie; her looks, her words, the thousand things she used to do to please him. The Mendelssohn she had given him. A certain sweet cake she made for him on his birthdays. And the touch of her hands, her kisses. He thought of these things with an agony of longing. If only he could have her back; if only she would come to him again, that he might show her— He asked himself: How much did Effie know? She must wonder why he had taken that sudden dislike to the drawing-room; why he insisted on sleeping in his study. She had never said anything. A week had passed—they were sitting in the dining-room after supper, when she spoke. “Wilfrid, why do you always want to sit here?” “Because I hate the other room.” “You didn’t use to. It’s only since that day you were ill, the last time you were playing. Why do you hate it?” “Well, if you want to know—you remember the beastly things I said about mother?” [Illustration] “You didn’t mean them.” “I did mean them— But it wasn’t that. It was something you said.” “I?” “Yes. You said ‘If the dead knew—’” “Well—?” “Well—they do know—I’m certain my mother knew. Certain, as I’m certain I’m sitting here, that she heard.” “Oh, Wilfrid, what makes you think that?” “I can’t tell you what makes me think it— But—she was there.” “You only think it because you’re feeling sorry. You must get over it. Go back into the room and play.” He shook his head and still sat there thinking. Effie did not speak again; she saw that she must let him think. Presently he got up and went into the drawing-room, shutting the doors behind him. The Mendelssohn was still on the piano ledge, open at Number Nine. He began to play it. But at the first bars of the melody he stopped, overwhelmed by an agony of regret. He slid down on his knees, with his arms on the edge of the piano and his head bowed on his arms. His soul cried out in him with no sound. “Mother—Mother—if only I had you back. If only you would come to me. Come—Come—” And suddenly he felt her come. From far-off, from her place among the blessed, she came rushing, as if on wings. He heard nothing; he saw nothing; but with every nerve he felt the vibration of her approach, of her presence. She was close to him now, closer than hearing or sight or touch could bring her; her self to his self; her inmost essence was there.