The old woman, with her shawl over her head, sat listening for her young mistress's approach, on the little side bench in the trellised porch, and tottered hastily forth to meet her at the garden wicket, whispering forlorn welcomes, and thanksgivings, which Rachel answered only with a kiss. Safe, safe at home! Thank Heaven at least for that. Secluded once more--hidden in Redman's Dell; but never again to be the same--the careless mind no more. The summer sunshine through the trees, the leafy songs of birds, obscured in the smoke and drowned in the discord of an untold and everlasting trouble. The hall-door was now shut and bolted. Wise old Tamar had turned the key upon the sleeping girl. There was nothing to be feared from prying eyes and listening ears. 'You are cold, Miss Radie, and tired--poor thing! I lit a bit of fire in your room, Miss; would you like me to go up stairs with you, Miss?' 'Come.' And so up stairs they went; and the young lady looked round with a strange anxiety, like a person seeking for something, and forgetting what; and, sitting down, she leaned her head on her hand with a moan, the living picture of despair. 'You've a headache, Miss Radie?' said the old woman, standing by her with that painful enquiry which sat naturally on her face. 'A heartache, Tamar.' 'Let me help you off with these things, Miss Radie, dear.' The young lady did not seem to hear, but she allowed Tamar to remove her cloak and hat and handkerchief. The old servant had placed the tea-things on the table, and what remained of that wine of which Stanley had partaken on the night from which the eclipse of Rachel's life dated. So, without troubling her with questions, she made tea, and then some negus, with careful and trembling hands. 'No,' said Rachel, a little pettishly, and put it aside. 'See now, Miss Radie, dear. You look awful sick and tired. You are tired to death and pale, and sorry, my dear child; and to please old Tamar, you'll just drink this.' 'Thank you, Tamar, I believe you are right.' The truth was she needed it; and in the same dejected way she sipped it slowly; and then there was a long silence--the silence of a fatigue, like that of fever, near which sleep refuses to come. But she sat in that waking lethargy in which are sluggish dreams of horror, and neither eyes nor ears for that which is before us. When at last with another great sigh she lifted her head, her eyes rested on old Tamar's face, at the other side of the fire-place, with a dark, dull surprise and puzzle for a moment, as if she could not tell why she was there, or where the place was; and then rising up, with piteous look in her old nurse's face, she said, 'Oh! Tamar, Tamar. It is a dreadful world.'