Celia, pretty Celia, as Hertha called her to herself, joined Miss Norreys before long, as arranged. Long afterwards--_always_ afterwards, perhaps I should say--Hertha came to see what a happy thing for her at this juncture had been the advent into her own daily life of this fresh, enthusiastic, yet thoughtful young nature. They suited each other admirably. Celia was so entirely in earnest, so forgetful of self in her work, so grateful for the advantages she owed in considerable measure to her friend, that she seemed never in the way. She had, of course, many difficulties to contend with, for even genius cannot walk along a royal road for many steps together; then come the rough bits, the flat, dull, monotonous stretches, when one seems to be making no way, and worst, yet best of all, perhaps, the ever-increasing consciousness of falling short of one's ever ascending ideal. But by degrees the great fact came to be incontestable--the genius was there. And Winifred, for her part, kept her promise man--or womanfully. She had not boasted in saying she was not one to do things by halves. She set her shoulder to the wheel of the duties she had never before taken any real interest in. There came up to Celia now and then lists of appallingly clever books on eminently practical subjects, all directly or indirectly connected with the management, on the best possible lines, of a large estate. And when Celia returned to London again, after a happy Christmastide at White Turrets the following winter, her report was most encouraging. "I cannot tell you how well Winifred is getting on," she said, "and how excellently she does everything. And with her as his more than right hand, papa seems a different being. She really _is_ very clever." "I am sure of it," Miss Norreys replied warmly. "And the queer thing is, that though she has never been so useful in her life, she is so much less self-confident," said Celia. "She is, oh, so _much_ softer and more sympathising!" "I think that is natural. She is no longer at war with herself, and unconsciously on the defensive," replied the elder woman. "But is it not delightful to you to think that it is really all _your_ doing, dear Hertha?" asked Celia. Hertha smiled. "I do not feel that it was," she said. "At least, my hands were strengthened very strangely. I--Celia," she broke off abruptly, "I want to ask you something. Has the White Weeper been heard of or seen of late?" "No, I believe not once," said Celia in surprise. Hertha bent her head in sign of satisfaction. "I thought so," she said. "Celia," she went on, "I think I will tell you now what I have never told any one but Winifred." And she related the story of her strange experience that moonlight night at White Turrets. Celia listened breathlessly, her face growing a shade paler. "How extraordinary, _how_ strange!" she exclaimed. "And you think Winifred was really influenced by it?"