her child, with a faint doubt trembling on the surface of her mind, yet a quaint, joyful confidence underneath in the force of nature.  A few words would be enough,—­a moment, and all would be right.  And then she pleased herself with fancies of how, when that was done, she would whisper to her darling what has never been told to flesh and blood; and so go home proud, and satisfied, and happy in the accomplishment of all she had hoped.

Mary came in with her candle in her hand, and closed the door between her and all external things.  She looked round wistful with that strange consciousness which she had already experienced, that some one was there.  The other stood so close to her that the girl could not move without touching her.  She held up her hands, imploring, to the child of her love.  She called to her, “Mary, Mary!” putting her hands upon her, and gazed into her face with an intensity and anguish of eagerness which might have drawn the stars out of the sky.  And a strange tumult was in Mary’s bosom.  She stood looking blankly round her, like one who is blind with open eyes, and saw nothing; and strained her ears like a deaf man, but heard nothing.  All was silence, vacancy, an empty world about her.  She sat down at her little table, with a heavy sigh.  “The child can see her, but she will not come to me,” Mary said, and wept.

Then Lady Mary turned away with a heart full of despair.  She went quickly from the house, out into the night.  The pang of her disappointment was so keen, that she could not endure it.  She remembered what had been said to her in the place from whence she came, and how she had been entreated to be patient and wait.  Oh, had she but waited and been patient!  She sat down upon the ground, a soul forlorn, outside of life, outside of all things, lost in a world which had no place for her.  The moon shone, but she made no shadow in it; the rain fell upon her, but did not hurt her; the little night breeze blew without finding any resistance in her.  She said to herself, “I have failed.  What am I, that I should do what they all said was impossible?  It was my pride, because I have had my own way all my life.  But now I have no way and no place on earth, and what I have to tell them will never, never be known.  Oh, my little Mary, a servant in her own house!  And a word would make it right!—­but never, never can she hear that word.  I am wrong to say never; she will know when she is in heaven.  She will not live to be old and foolish, like me.  She will go up there early, and then she will know.  But I, what will become of me?—­for I am nothing here, I cannot go back to my own place.”

A little moaning wind rose up suddenly in the middle of the dark night, and carried a faint wail, like the voice of some one lost, to the windows of the great house.  It woke the children and Mary, who opened her eyes quickly in the dark, wondering if perhaps now the vision might come to her.  But the vision had come when she could not see it, and now returned no more.