She had no sooner looked at her letters, and chatted with her housekeeper, on the day of her return, than clothed in her oldest gown and thickest shoes, she went out wandering by herself through the October dusk; ravished by the colour in which autumn had been wrapping the Cumbrian earth since she had beheld it last; the purples and golds and amethysts, the touches of emerald green, the fringes of blue and purple mist; by the familiar music of the streams, which is not as the Scotch music; and the scents of the hills, which are not as the scents of the Highlands.  Yet all the time she was thinking of Harry and Lydia Penfold; trying to plan the winter, and what she was to do.

It was dark, with a rising moon when she got back to Duddon.  The butler, an old servant, was watching for her in the hall.  She noticed disturbance in his manner.

“There are two ladies, my lady, in the drawing-room.”

“Two ladies!—­Hurst!” The tone was reproachful.  Victoria did not always suffer her neighbours gladly, and Hurst knew her ways.  The first evening at home was sacred.

“I could not help it, my lady.  I told them you were out, and might not be in till dark.  They said they must see you—­they had come from Italy—­and it was most important.”

“From Italy!” repeated Victoria, wondering—­“who on earth—­Did they give their name?”

“No, my lady, they said you’d know them quite well.”

Victoria hurried on to the drawing-room.  Two figures rose as she entered the room, which was only lit by the firelight; and then stood motionless.

Victoria advanced bewildered.

“Will you kindly tell me your names?”

“Don’t you remember me, Lady Tatham?” said a low, excited voice.

Victoria turned on an electric switch close to her hand, and the room was suddenly in a blaze of light.  She looked in scrutinizing astonishment at the figure in dingy black, standing before her, and at a girl, looking about sixteen—­deathly pale—­who seemed to be leaning on a chair in the background.

That strange, triangular face, with the sharp chin, and the abnormal eyes—­where, in what dim past, had she seen it before?  For some seconds memory wrestled.  Then, old and new came together; and she recognized her visitor.

“Mrs. Melrose!” she said, in incredulous amazement.  The woman in black came nearer, and spoke brokenly—­the bitter emotion beneath gradually forcing its way.

“I am in great distress—­I don’t know what to do.  My daughter and I are starving—­and I remembered you’d come to see me—­that once—­at Threlfall.  I knew all about you.  I’ve asked English people often.  I thought perhaps you’d help me—­you’d tell me how to make my husband do something for me—­for me—­and for his daughter!  Look at her”—­Netta paused and pointed—­“she’s ill—­she’s dropping.  We had to hurry through from Lucca.  We couldn’t afford to stop on the way.  We sold everything we had; some people collected a hundred