Ellen raised wet but happier eyes.  “Why, I felt like that when they brought mother’s coffin out of the Fever Hospital.  Only then it was the hills in the distance that knew—­the Pentland Hills.  But do you really think that was true?”

“I knew it was then,” said Marion.  “If I am less certain now it is only because I have forgotten.”

They nodded wisely.  “After all, there must be something.”

“Yes, there must be something....”

Ellen began to dance again.  Marion turned aside and tried to lose the profound malaise that the reticent feel when they have given up a secret in thinking how well worth while it had been, since Ellen was such a dear, young, loving thing.  She found consolation in this frost-polished morning:  the pale, bright sky in which the light stood naked, her abandoned veil of clouds floating above the horizon; the swoop and dance over the marshes of the dazzling specks that were seagulls; the fur of rime that the dead leaves on the hedgerow wore, and the fine jewellery-work of the glistening grass tufts in its shadow.  The world had neglected nothing in its redding up.

At her elbow Ellen spoke shyly.  “Richard’s come down at last.  May I go in to him, Mrs. Yaverland?”

“Of course you may.  You can do anything you like.  From now onwards he’s yours, not mine.”

Ellen ran in and Richard came to the window to meet her.  As he drew her over the threshold by both hands he called down the garden, “Good morning, mother.”  But Marion had perceived that from the moment of seeing her his face had worn the dark colour of estrangement.  She turned and walked blindly away, not noticing that Mabel had come out to bring her the morning post, and was following at her heels, till the girl coughed.

There were four letters.  She opened them with avidity, for they were certificates that there were other things in life as well as Richard with which she could occupy herself.  Two were bills, the first from her dressmakers and the other from the dealer who had sold her some coloured glass a few weeks before; and there was a dividend warrant for her to sign and send to her bankers.  Sweeping about the lawn as on a stage, she resolved to buy clothes that would make her look like other untormented women, and more hangings and pictures and vases to make her house look gay.  Then she observed that the fourth envelope was addressed in the handwriting of the son whom she could not love.

She looked towards the house and saw the son whom she loved, but he did not see her.  Ellen’s red head was close to his shoulder.

It was horrible handwriting outside and inside the envelope:  a weak running of ink that sagged downwards in the second half of every line and added feeble flourishes to every capital that gave the whole an air of insincerity.  It had the disgusting appearance of a begging letter, and indeed that was what it was.  It begged for love, for condonation of the writer’s loathsomeness.  She held it far off as she read: