When, afterwards, he was introduced to Mrs. Trenchard in the drawing-room, he liked her at once.  She was a little woman, very neat, with grey hair brushed back from her forehead.  She was like some fresh, mild-coloured fruit, and an old-fashioned dress of rather faded green silk, and a large locket that she wore gave her a settled, tranquil air as though she had always been the same, and would continue so for many years.  She had a high, fresh colour, a beautiful complexion and her hands had the delicacy of fragile egg-shell china.  She was cheerful and friendly, but was, nevertheless, a sad woman; her eyes were dark and her voice was a little forced as though she had accustomed herself to be in good spirits.  The love between herself and her husband was very pleasant to see.

Like all simple people, they immediately trusted Seymour with their confidence.  During luncheon they told him many things, of Rasselas, where Mr. Trenchard had been a curate, at their joy at getting the Clinton living, and of their happiness at being there, of the kindness of the people, of the beauty of the country, of their neighbours, of their relations, the George Trenchards, at Garth of Glebeshire generally, and what it meant to be a Trenchard.

“There’ve been Trenchards in Glebeshire,” said the Vicar, greatly excited, “since the beginning of time.  If Adam and Eve were here, and Glebeshire was the Garden of Eden, as I daresay it was, why, then Adam was a Trenchard.”

Afterwards when they were smoking in the confused study, Seymour learnt why Mrs. Trenchard was a sad woman.

“We’ve had one trial, under God’s grace,” said Mr. Trenchard.  “There was a boy and a girl—­Francis and Jessamy.  They died, both, in a bad epidemic of typhoid here, five years ago.  Francis was five, Jessamy four.  ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.’  It was hard losing both of them.  They got ill together and died on the same day.”

He puffed furiously at his pipe.  “Mrs. Trenchard keeps the nursery just the same as it used to be.  She’ll show it to you, I daresay.”

Later, when Mrs. Trenchard took him over the house, his sight of the nursery was more moving to him than any of his old memories.  She unlocked the door with a sharp turn of the wrist and showed him the wide sun-lit room, still with fresh curtains, with a wall-paper of robins and cherries, with the toys—­dolls, soldiers, a big dolls’-house, a rocking-horse, boxes of bricks.

“Our two children, who died five years ago,” she said in her quiet, calm voice, “this was their room.  These were their things.  I haven’t been able to change it as yet.  Mr. Lasher,” she said, smiling up at him, “had no children, and you were too old for a nursery, I suppose.”

It was then, as he stood in the doorway, bathed in a shaft of sunlight, that he was again, with absolute physical consciousness, aware of the children’s presence.  He could tell that they were pressing behind him, staring past him into the room, he could almost hear their whispered exclamations of delight.