of his intention.”  She sighed wonderingly, her anxious frown deepening between her eyebrows.  “They both seemed to think that in some way I was to blame for the whole thing,” she added, “and your uncle never forgave me.  It’s the same way now.  Mr. Chamberlayne spoke quite angrily to me when he saw the effect of his interview.  He appeared to think that I ought to have prevented it.”

“Could it have been kept from her, do you suppose?”

“That looked impossible, and of course, he broke it to her very gently.  He also, you know, has all his life had a sentiment about Angela, and that, I think is why he never married.  He told me once that she came nearer than any woman he had ever seen to representing every man’s ideal.”

“What I can’t understand is why she should have been so upset by the discovery?”

“Well, she was very fond of your uncle, and she has cherished quite romantically the memory of his affection for her.  I think—­for that is Angela’s way—­that he means much more to her dead than he did living—­and this, she says, has blackened the image.”

“But even then it seems incomprehensible that it should have made her really so ill.”

“Oh, you don’t know her yet, Jonathan.  I remember your uncle used to say that she was more like a flower than a woman, and he was always starting alarms about her health.  We lived in a continual panic about her for several years, and it was her weakness, as much as her beauty, that gave her her tremendous power over him.  He was like wax in her hands, though of course he never suspected it.”

The tread of Mr. Mullen was heard softly on the staircase, and he entered with his hand outstretched from the starched cuff that showed beneath the sleeve of his black broadcloth coat.  Pausing on the rug, he glanced from Kesiah to Jonathan with a grave and capable look, as though he wished them to understand that, having settled everything with perfect satisfaction in the mind of Mrs. Gay, he was now ready to perform a similar office for the rest of the household.

“I am thankful to say that I left your dear mother resting peacefully,” he observed in a whisper.  “You must have had a distressing journey, Mr. Gay?”

“I was very much alarmed,” replied Gay, with a nervous gesture as if he were pushing aside a disagreeable responsibility.  “The note took three days to find me, and I didn’t know until I got here whether she was alive or dead.”

“It is easy to understand your feelings,” returned the rector, still whispering though Gay had spoken in his natural voice.  “Such a mother as yours deserves the most careful cherishing that you can give her.  To know her has been an inspiration, and I am never tired of repeating that her presence in the parish, and occasional attendance at church, are privileges for which we should not forget to be thankful.  It is not possible, I believe, for any woman to approach more closely the perfect example of her sex.”