“What are you thinking of?”

“I’ve gone away,” she answered.  “I was not being treated very well, and so I went away.  I’m over in my Dreaming Land, My Own Country.”

“Ah, come back to me!” he cried.

“Very well,” she said, obligingly, though she made no movement toward him.  “I’ve been rebuilding the old lodge, in my thoughts, for Josef.  It will be such a wonderful place for him to rest in!  He will want the first floor made into one room.  And Nora and I will come there in the summer-time, when we’re not singing.  Perhaps you will come to visit us sometime, Mr. Ravenel!” she said, politely.

“Katrine, Katrine!” he pleaded.  “It would be so unfair to you.”

“Nonsense,” she returned, shortly.  There was surely never anything kinder or better in the world than this belittling of the whole matter.

“And I may never be strong again—­”

“Then I can have my own way more,” she laughed.

“And your voice—­”

“Beloved,” she said, gravely, “I can never give up my singing.  Don’t think me vain when I say I sing too well to make it right for me to give it up.  I don’t believe that anybody who does a thing well, who has the real gift, can give it up.  But that I shall never have to sing for money is a great happiness for me.  I can sing for the poorer folk, for the ones who really feel.  Ah,” she cried, “I’ve plans of my own, Josef and I!  And the study and the pain were to teach me how unimportant all things are in this world save only love.”

“Katrine!  Katrine!” he cried, “you must help me to be square to you!” He raised his hand, feeble from illness, in the manner of one who takes an oath.  “I solemnly swear that I will never do you the injustice—­”

“Don’t!” she cried, springing quickly to her feet and catching the upraised hand quickly to her breast.  “Don’t!” Adding quickly, with a laugh, “It’s dreadful to commit perjury!”

Their hands were still clasped as Mrs. Ravenel came out to join them.  In the lavender gown, with her fair face smiling, and carrying a work-bag of the interminable knitting in one hand, she did not look in the least the emissary of fate she really was.

“Mr. de Peyster has sent some letters, Frank.  He writes me that none of them are of importance, but that you may care to look them over.  And they made me think of a great envelope of papers which I had meant to send to you before you were taken ill.  I found it just after you had been looking up all those family affairs, before you went abroad!  I put them with my knitting, and naturally forgot.  Your father gave it to me, oh, so many years ago! and I put it in the cedar chest.”  She gave the papers to Frank, talking in a gay, unimportant manner as she did so.  “Isn’t that curious on the outside?” she demanded. “’To be opened in case my will is ever disputed.’ Now, who did your father think would ever dispute his will?  I had been a faithful and,” she laughed, “more or less obedient wife for many years.  And you were too small to dispute anything except matters with your tutor.  Don’t look them over now, dearest, they may worry you!”