Philps’s voice faded and she sat with trembling lips and eyes downcast. “_Did_ she!” Miriam almost shouted, half-rising from her seat and turning from contemplating Mrs. Philps in the mirror to look her full in the face. The dim green light streaming in from the conservatory seemed like a tide that made everything in the room rock slightly. A touch would sweep it all away and heaven would be there all round them. “Did she,” whispered Miriam in a faint voice that shook her chest. “‘Aunt,’ she said,” went on Mrs. Philps steadily, as the room grew firm round Miriam and the breath she drew seemed like an early morning breath, “‘I want to say something quickly,’ she said, ‘in case I die. It’s that I know--for a positive fact, there is another life.’” “What a perfectly stupendous thing,” said Miriam. “It’s so important.” “I was much impressed. Of course, I knew she was nearly perfect. But we’ve not been in the habit of talking about religion. I asked her if she would like to see the vicar. ‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘there’s no need. He knows.’ I doubt if he knows as much as she does. But I didn’t make a point of it.” “Oh, but it’s simply wonderful. It’s much more important than anything a vicar could say. It’s their business to say those things.” “I don’t know about that. But she was so weak that I didn’t press it.” “But it’s so important. What a wonderful thing to have in your family. Did she say anything more?” “She hasn’t returned to the subject again. She’s very weak.” Wild clutching thoughts shook at Miriam. If only Grace could suddenly appear in her night-gown, to be questioned. Or if she herself could stay on there creeping humbly about in this little house, watering the conservatory and darning dusters, being a relative of the Brooms, devoting herself to Grace, waiting on her, hearing all she had to say. What did it matter that the Brooms wore heavy mourning and gloated over funerals if Grace upstairs in her room had really seen the white light away in the distance far away beyond the noise of the world? CHAPTER VII 1 Harriett’s ringed fingers had finished dipping and drying the blue and white tea-service. She sat for a moment staring ahead down-stream. Sitting opposite her, Gerald watched her face with a half smile. Miriam waited sitting at her side. It was the first moment of silence since she had come home at midday. From the willow-curtained island against which they were moored came little crepitations and flittings. Ahead of them the river blazed gold and blue, hedged by high spacious trees. “_Come_-to-tea, _come_-to-tea, hurryup-dear,” said a bird suddenly from the island thicket. “D’you know what bird that is, Gerald?” asked Miriam. “Not from Adam,” breathed Gerald, swaying on his seat with a little laugh. “It’s a bird. That’s all I know.” “We’d better unmoor, silly,” muttered Harriett briskly, gathering up the tiller ropes. “Right, la reine.”