Thinking these things, she met Mrs. Birkett midway on the lawn, the kind soul having come out to speak a soothing word before the poor child went in, to let her feel that she was sympathized with, not abandoned by them all.  Fond as she was of madame, the new Mrs, Dundas, and little as she knew of Leam, the facts of the case were enough for her, and she saw Adelaide and herself in the child’s sorrow and poor Pepita’s successor.  “My dear,” she said affectionately as she met the girl walking so slowly up the lawn, “I dare say this is a trial to you, but you must accept it for your good.  I know what you must feel, but it is better for you to have a good kind stepmother, who will be your friend and instructress, than to be left with no one to guide you.”

Leam’s sad face lifted itself up to the speaker.  “It cannot be good for me if it is against mamma,” she said.

“But, Leam, dear child, be reasonable.  Your mamma, poor dear! is dead, and, let us trust, in heaven.”  The good soul’s conscience pricked her when she said this glib formula, of which in this present instance she believed nothing.  “Your father has the most perfect right to marry again.  Neither the Church nor the Bible forbids it; and you cannot expect him to remain single all his life—­when he needs a wife so much, too, on your account—­because he was married to your dear mamma when she was alive.  Besides, she has done with this life and all the things of the earth by now; and even if she has not, she will be happy to see you, her dear child, well cared for and kindly mothered.”

Leam raised her eyes with sorrowful skepticism, melancholy contempt.  It was the old note of war, and she responded to it.  “I know mamma,” she said; “I know what she is feeling.”

She would have none of their spiritual thaumaturgy—­none of that unreal kind of transformation with which they had tried to modify their first teaching.  There was no satisfaction in imagining mamma something different from her former self—­no more the real, fervid, passionate, jealous Pepita than those pear-shaped transparent bags, so logically constructed by Mrs. Corfield’s philosopher, are like the ideal angels of loving fancy.  If mamma saw and knew what was going on here at this present moment—­and Mrs. Birkett was not the bold questioner to doubt this continuance of interest—­she felt as she would have felt when alive, and she would be angry, jealous, weeping, unhappy.

Mrs. Birkett was puzzled what to say for the best to this uncomfortable fanatic, this unreasonable literalist.  When believers have to formularize in set words their hazy notions of the feelings and conditions of souls in bliss, they make but a lame business of it; and nothing that the dear woman could propound, keeping on the side of orthodox spirituality, carried comfort or conviction to Leam.  Her one unalterable answer was always simply, “I know mamma:  I know what she is feeling,” and no argument could shake her from her point.