“I’ve had breakfast, Granny.”

Frances Freeland gazed at her doubtfully, then, as a last resource, began to sip the cocoa, of which, in truth, she was badly in want.

“Granny, will you help me?”

“Of course, darling.  What is it?”

“I do so want Derek to forget all about this terrible business.”

Frances Freeland, who had unscrewed the top of a little canister, answered: 

“Yes, dear, I quite agree.  I’m sure it’s best for him.  Open your mouth and let me pop in one of these delicious little plasmon biscuits.  They’re perfect after travelling.  Only,” she added wistfully, “I’m afraid he won’t pay any attention to me.”

“No, but you could speak to Aunt Kirsteen; it’s for her to stop him.”

One of her most pathetic smiles came over Frances Freeland’s face.

“Yes, I could speak to her.  But, you see, I don’t count for anything.  One doesn’t when one gets old.”

“Oh, Granny, you do!  You count for a lot; every one admires you so.  You always seem to have something that—­that other people haven’t got.  And you’re not a bit old in spirit.”

Frances Freeland was fingering her rings; she slipped one off.

“Well,” she said, “it’s no good thinking about that, is it?  I’ve wanted to give you this for ages, darling; it is so uncomfortable on my finger.  Now, just let me see if I can pop it on!”

Nedda recoiled.

“Oh, Granny!” she said.  “You are—!” and vanished.

There was still no one in the kitchen, and she sat down to wait for her aunt to finish her up-stairs duties.

Kirsteen came down at last, in her inevitable blue dress, betraying her surprise at this sudden appearance of her niece only by a little quivering of her brows.  And, trembling with nervousness, Nedda took her plunge, pouring out the whole story—­of Derek’s letter; their journey down; her father’s talk with him; the visit to Tryst’s body; their walk by the river; and of how haunted and miserable he was.  Showing the little note he had left that morning, she clasped her hands and said: 

“Oh, Aunt Kirsteen, make him happy again!  Stop that awful haunting and keep him from all this!”

Kirsteen had listened, with one foot on the hearth in her favorite attitude.  When the girl had finished she said quietly: 

“I’m not a witch, Nedda!”

“But if it wasn’t for you he would never have started.  And now that poor Tryst’s dead he would leave it alone.  I’m sure only you can make him lose that haunted feeling.”

Kirsteen shook her head.

“Listen, Nedda!” she said slowly, as though weighing each word.  “I should like you to understand.  There’s a superstition in this country that people are free.  Ever since I was a girl your age I’ve known that they are not; no one is free here who can’t pay for freedom.  It’s one thing to see, another to feel this with your whole being.  When, like me, you have an open wound, which something is always inflaming, you can’t wonder, can you, that fever escapes into the air.  Derek may have caught the infection of my fever—­that’s all!  But I shall never lose that fever, Nedda—­ never!”