Ellen ran across the lawn to her, beetle-black in her mourning, but capering as foals do.

“I’ll not have my breakfast till he does,” she announced.  “Is there anything I can do for him?”

“Nothing, my dear, I’m afraid.  But look at the view.  Isn’t it lovely?”

The girl clapped her hands.  “Oh, it’s bonny.  And it’s neat.  It’s redded itself up for Richard’s coming.”

“‘Redded itself up’?  What does that mean?”

“Don’t you use the word here?  English seems to be a terribly poor language.  Redding up means making everything tidy and neat, so that you’re ready for anything.”

That was what one must do:  red oneself up.  It was true that it was no use doing that for Richard any more, and that there was no one else in the world for whom she wished to be ready.  But she must be schooled by the spectacle of the earth, for here it was shining fair, and yet it had nothing to expect; it was but the icing of a cake destined for some sun’s swallowing.

“Is Richard a good riser?” asked Ellen, adopting a severe, servant-engaging tone to disguise the truth that she was trembling with desire to see her lover.

“Usually, but he may be late to-day since he went to bed such a short time ago.  He evidently isn’t up yet, for his blind’s still down.  That’s his room on the left.”

But as they gazed the blind went up, and they saw him turning away from the window.

“Oh, why didn’t he look at us!” cried Ellen.  “Why didn’t he look at us?”

“Because he is thinking of nothing but how soon he can get down to breakfast and meet you,” said Marion; but being aware of the quality of her blood, which was his, she knew that he had not seen his women and the glittering world because he had risen blind with sullenness.

“Will he be long, do you think?” she pondered.  “Not that I’d want him to miss his bath.”  She broke into a kind of Highland fling, looking down on the blue and silver estuary and chanting, “Lovely, lovely,” but desisted suddenly and asked:  “Mrs. Yaverland, do you think there’s a future life?”

Marion said lazily, “I shouldn’t have thought you need to think out that problem yet awhile.”

“Oh, I’m not worrying for myself.  But on a fine day like this I just hate to think my mother’s not getting the benefit of it somewhere.  And seeing your age, I thought you might have begun to give the matter consideration.”

Marion resolved to treasure that remark for repetition to Richard; and was dashed to remember that it was probable in future they would not share their jokes.  “Well, I don’t think there’s any evidence for it at all,” she said aloud; “but I don’t think that proves that there isn’t one.  I don’t think we would be allowed to know if there was one, for I’m sure that if most people knew for certain there was going to be another world they wouldn’t make the best of this.”  But she saw, from the way that Ellen continued to stare down at her toes, that that abstract comfort had not been of any service, so she parted with yet another secret.  “But I do know that when Richard’s father died all the trees round the house seemed to know where he had gone.”