‘You would have more strength if you went out more,’ pleaded Mary, almost with tears.  ’Mr. Horton says sun and wind are the best doctors for you.  Lesbia, you frighten me sometimes.  You are just letting yourself fade away.’

’If you knew how I hate the world and the sky, Mary, you wouldn’t urge me to go out of doors,’ Lesbia answered, moodily.  ’Indoors I can read, and get away from my own thoughts somehow, for a little while.  But out yonder, face to face with the hills and the lake—­the scenes I have known all my life—­I feel a heart-sickness that is worse than death.  It maddens me to see that old, old picture of mountain and water, the same for ever and ever, no matter what hearts are breaking.’

Mary crept close beside her sister’s couch, put her arm round her neck, laid her cheek—­rich in the ruddy bloom of health—­against Lesbia’s pallid and sunken cheek, and comforted her as much as she could with tender murmurs and loving kisses.  Other comfort, she could give none.  All the wisdom in the world will not cure a girl’s heart-sickness when she has flung away the treasures of her love upon a worthless object.

And so the days went by, peacefully, but sadly; for the shadow of doom hung heavily over the house upon the Fell.  Nobody who looked upon Lady Maulevrier could doubt that her days were numbered, that the oil was waxing low in the lamp of life.  The end, the awful, mysterious end, was drawing near; and she who was called was making no such preparations as the Christian makes to answer the dread summons.  As she had lived, she meant to die—­an avowed unbeliever.  More than once Mary had taken courage, and had talked to her grandmother of the world beyond, the blessed hope of re-union with the friends we have lost, in a new and brighter life, only to be met by the sceptic’s cynical smile, the materialist’s barren creed.

’My dearest, we know nothing except the immutable laws of material life.  All the rest is a dream—­a beautiful dream, if you like—­a consolation to that kind of temperament which can take comfort from dreams; but for anyone who has read much, and thought much, and kept as far as possible on a level with the scientific intellect of the age—­for such an one, Mary, these old fables are too idle.  I shall die as I have lived, the victim of an inscrutable destiny, working blindly, evil to some, good to others.  Ah! love, life has begun very fairly for you.  May the fates be kind always to my gentle and loving girl!’

There was more talk between them on this dark mystery of life and death.  Mary brought out her poor little arguments, glorified by the light of perfect faith; but they were of no avail against opinions which had been the gradual growth of a long and joyless life.  Time had attuned Lady Maulevrier’s mind to the gospel of Schopenhauer and the Pessimists, and she was contented to see the mystery of life as they had seen it.  She had no fear, but she had some anxiety as to the things that were to happen after she was gone.  She had taken upon herself a heavy burden, and she had not yet come to the end of the road where her burden might be laid quietly down, her task accomplished.  If she fell by the wayside under her load the consequences for the survivors might be full of trouble.