And Eugenie gazed in delight at the small, slight creature, so actively and healthily built, in spite of her fairy proportions, at the likeness to Fenwick in hair and skin, at the apple-freshness of her colour, the beauty of her eyes, the lightness of her pretty feet.

Twelve years!—­and then to find this, dropped into your arms by the gods—­this living, breathing promise of all delight!  Deep in Eugenie’s heart there stirred the pang of her own pitiful motherhood, of the child who had just flickered into life, and out of it, through one summer’s day.

She shyly put her arm round the girl.

‘May I,’ she said, timidly—­’may I kiss you?’

Carrie, with down-dropped eyes, a little grave, submitted.

‘I am going to tell my mother.  Father sent you, didn’t he?’

Eugenie said ‘Yes’ gently, and released her.  The child ran off.

Phoebe came slowly into the room, with an uncertain gait, touching the door and the walls like one groping her way.

‘Oh, Mrs. Fenwick!’

It was a little cry from Eugenie—­deprecating, full of pain.

Phoebe took no notice of it.  She went straight to her visitor.

‘Where is my husband, please?’ she said, in a strong, hoarse voice, mechanically holding out her hand, which Eugenie touched and then let drop—­so full of rugged, passionate things were the face and form she looked at.

‘He’s coming by the afternoon train.’  Eugenie threw all her will into calmness and clearness.  ’He gets to Windermere before five—­and he thought he might be here a little after six.  He was so ill yesterday—­when I found him—­when I went to see him!  That’s what he wanted me to tell you before you saw him again—­and so I came first—­by the night train.’

‘You went to see him—­yesterday?’ said Phoebe, still in the same tense way.

She had never asked her guest to sit, and she stood herself, one hand leaning heavily on the table.

’I had heard from the lawyers—­the lawyers my father had recommended to Mr. Fenwick—­that they had found a clue—­they had discovered some traces of you in Canada—­and I went to tell him.’

‘Lawyers?’ Phoebe raised her left hand in bewilderment.  ’I don’t understand.’

Eugenie came a little nearer.  Hurriedly, with changing colour, she gave an account of the researches of the lawyers during the preceding seven months—­interrupted in the middle by Phoebe.

‘But why was John looking for us, after—­after all this time?’ she said, in a fainter, weaker voice, dropping at the same time into a chair.

Eugenie hesitated; then said, firmly, ’Because he wished to find you, more than anything else in the world.  And my father and I helped him all we could—­’

’But you didn’t know?’—­Phoebe caught piteously at her dress—­’you didn’t know—?’

’That Mr. Fenwick was married?  No—­never!—­till last autumn.  That was his wrong-doing, towards all his old friends.’