frame to an awful statue—­like stillness—­a quietude as of death of itself—­had not overclouded the intellect.  Lady Maulevrier lay on her bed in her luxurious room, with wide Tudor windows commanding half the circle of the hills, and was still the ruling spirit of the house, albeit powerless to move that slender hand, the lightest wave of which had been as potent to command in her little world as royal sign-manual or sceptre in the great world outside.

Now there remained only one thing unimpaired by that awful shock which had laid the stately frame low, and that was the will and sovereign force of the woman’s nature.  Voice was altered, speech was confused and difficult; but the strength of will, the supreme power of mind, seemed undiminished.

When Lady Maulevrier was asked if Lesbia should be telegraphed for, she replied no, not unless she was in danger of sudden death.

‘I should like to see her before I go,’ she said, labouring to pronounce the words.

‘Dear grandmother,’ said Mary, tenderly, ’Mr. Horton says there is no danger.’

’Then do not send for her; do not even tell her what has happened; not yet.’

‘But she will miss your letters.’

’True.  You must write twice a week at my dictation.  You must tell her that I have hurt my hand, that I am well but cannot use a pen.  I would not spoil her pleasure for the world.’

’Dear grandmother, how unselfish you are!  And Maulevrier, shall he be sent for?  He is not so far away,’ said Mary, hoping her grandmother would say yes.

What a relief, what an unspeakable solace Maulevrier’s presence would be in that dreary house, smitten to a sudden and awful stillness, as if by the Angel of Death!

‘No, I do not want Maulevrier!’ answered her ladyship impatiently.

‘May I sit here and read to you, grandmother?’ Mary asked, timidly.  ’Mr. Horton said you were to be kept very quiet, and that we were not to let you talk, or talk much to you, but that we might read to you if you like.’

‘I do not wish to be read to.  I have my thoughts for company,’ said Lady Maulevrier.

Mary felt that this implied a wish to be alone.  She bent over the invalid’s pillow and kissed the pale cheek, feeling as if she were taking a liberty in venturing so much.  She would hardly have done it had Lesbia been at home; but she had a feeling that in Lesbia’s absence Lady Maulevrier must want somebody’s love—­even hers.  And then she crept away, leaving Halcott the maid in attendance, sitting at her work at the window furthest from the bed.

‘Alone with my thoughts,’ mused Lady Maulevrier, looking out at the panorama of wintry hills, white, ghost-like against an iron sky.  ’Pleasant thoughts, truly!  Walled in by the hills—­walled in and hemmed round for ever.  This place has always felt like a grave:  and now I know that it is my grave.’