“There will be a sharp frost to-night; they won’t stand that,” said Sarah, shaking her head.

“The poor roses of autumn,” said Lady Mary, rather dreamily, “they are never so sweet as the roses of June.”

“But they are much rarer, and more precious,” said Sarah.

Lady Mary looked at her and smiled.  How quickly Sarah always understood!

Sarah caught her hand and kissed it impulsively.  Her back was turned to the old sisters in the chimney corner.

“Lady Mary,” she said, “oh, never mind if I am indiscreet; you know I am always that.”  A little sob escaped her.  “But I must ask you this one thing—­you—­you didn’t really think that of me, did you?”

“Think what, dear child?” said Lady Mary, bewildered.

Sarah looked round at the two old ladies.

The head of Miss Crewys was inclined towards the crochet she held in her lap.  She slumbered peacefully.

Lady Belstone was absently gazing into the heart of the great fire.  The heat did not appear to cause her inconvenience.  She was nodding.

“They will hear nothing,” said Lady Mary, softly.  “Tell me, Sarah, what you mean.  I would ask you,” she said, with a little smile and flush, “to tell me something else, only, I—­too—­am afraid of being indiscreet.”

“There is nothing I would not tell you,” murmured Sarah, “though I believe I would rather tell you—­out in the dark—­than here,” she laughed nervously.

“The drawing-room is not lighted, except by the moon,” said Lady Mary, also a little excited by the thought of what Sarah might, perhaps, be going to say; “but there is no fire there, I am afraid.  The aunts do not like sitting there in the evening.  But if you would not be too cold, in that thin, white gown—?”

“I am never cold,” said Sarah; “I take too much exercise, I suppose, to feel the cold.”

“Then come,” said Lady Mary.

They stole past the sleeping sisters into the drawing-room, and closed the communicating door as noiselessly as possible.

Here only the moonlight reigned, pouring in through the uncurtained windows and rendering the gay, rose-coloured room, with its pretty contents, perfectly weird and unfamiliar.

Sarah flung her warm, young arms about her earliest and most beloved friend, and rested her bright head against the gentle bosom.

“You never thought I meant all the horrid, cruel things I made Peter say to you?  You never believed it of me, did you?  That I wouldn’t marry him unless you went away.  You whom I love best in the world, and always have,” she said defiantly, “or that I would ever alter a single corner of this dear old house, which used to be so hideous, and which you have made so beautiful?”

“Sarah!  My—­my darling!” said Lady Mary, in frightened, trembling tones.

“You needn’t blame Peter for saying any of it,” said Sarah, “for it was I who put the words into his mouth.  It made him miserable to say them; but he could not help himself.  He wasn’t really quite responsible for his actions.  He isn’t now.  When people are—­are in love, I’ve often noticed they’re not responsible.”