Janet caught the words, but her heart was too full to notice them just then.  She had her arms round Dance’s neck in a moment, and her bright young head was pressed against the old servant’s faithful breast.

“Oh, Dance, Dance, I am so glad you are come!”

“Hush, dear heart! hush, my poor child! you must not take on in that way.  It seems a poor coming home for you—­for I suppose Deepley Walls is to be your home in time to come—­but there are those under this roof that love you dearly.  Eh! but you are grown tall and bonny, and look as fresh and sweet as a morning in May.  Her ladyship ought to be proud of you.  But she gets that cantankerous and cross-grained in her old age that you never know what will suit her for two minutes at a time.  For all that, her spirit is just wonderful, and she is a real lady, every inch of her.  And you, Miss Janet, you are a thorough lady; anybody can see that, and her ladyship will see it as soon as anybody.  She will like you none the worse for being a gentlewoman.  But here am I preaching away like any old gadabout, and you not as much as taken your bonnet off yet.  Get your things off, dearie, and I’ll have a cup of tea ready in no time, and you’ll feel ever so much better when you have had it.”

Dance could scarcely take her eyes off Janet’s face, so attracted was she by the likeness which had rung from her an exclamation on entering the room.

But Janet was tired, and reserved all questions till the morrow; all questions, except one.  That one was—­

“How is Sister Agnes?”

Dance shook her head solemnly.  “No worse and no better than she has been for the last two months.  There is something lingering about her that I don’t like.  She is far from well, and yet not exactly what we call ill.  Morning, noon and night she seems so terribly weary, and that is just what frightens me.  She has asked after you I don’t know how many times, and when tea is over you must go and see her.  Only I must warn you, dear Miss Janet, not to let your feelings overcome you when you see her—­not to make a scene.  In that case your coming would do her not good, but harm.”

Janet recovered her spirits in a great measure before tea was over.  She and Dance had much to talk about, many pleasant reminiscences to call up and discuss.  As if by mutual consent, Lady Chillington’s name was not mentioned between them.

As soon as tea was over, Dance went to inquire when Sister Agnes would see Miss Hope.  The answer was, “I will see her at once.”

So Janet went with hushed footsteps up the well-remembered staircase, opened the door softly, and stood for a moment on the threshold.  Sister Agnes was lying on a sofa.  She put her hand suddenly to her side and rose to her feet as Janet entered the room.  A tall, wasted figure robed in black, with a thin, spiritualised face, the natural pallor of which was just now displaced by a transient flush that faded out almost as quickly as it had come.  The white head-dress had been cast aside for once, and the black hair, streaked with silver, was tied in a simple knot behind.  The large dark eyes looked larger and darker than they had ever looked before, and seemed lit up with an inner fire that had its source in another world than ours.