“God has not watched over me,” he said, in despair; his thoughts apparently recoiling on his own desolate, deserted state.  But Norah had no time for pity.  To-morrow she would be as compassionate as her heart prompted.  At length she guided him downstairs and shut the outer door and bolted it—­as if by bolts to keep out facts.

Then she went back into the dining-room and effaced all traces of his presence as far as she could.  She went upstairs to the nursery and sate there, her head on her hand, thinking what was to come of all this misery.  It seemed to her very long before they did return; yet it was hardly eleven o’clock.  She so heard the loud, hearty Lancashire voices on the stairs; and, for the first time, she understood the contrast of the desolation of the poor man who had so lately gone forth in lonely despair.

It almost put her out of patience to see Mrs. Openshaw come in, calmly smiling, handsomely dressed, happy, easy, to inquire after her children.

“Did Ailsie go to sleep comfortably?” she whispered to Norah.

“Yes.”

Her mother bent over her, looking at her slumbers with the soft eyes of love.  How little she dreamed who had looked on her last!  Then she went to Edwin, with perhaps less wistful anxiety in her countenance, but more of pride.  She took off her things, to go down to supper.  Norah saw her no more that night.

Beside the door into the passage, the sleeping-nursery opened out of Mr. and Mrs. Openshaw’s room, in order that they might have the children more immediately under their own eyes.  Early the next summer morning Mrs. Openshaw was awakened by Ailsie’s startled call of “Mother! mother!” She sprang up, put on her dressing-gown, and went to her child.  Ailsie was only half awake, and in a not uncommon state of terror.

“Who was he, mother?  Tell me!”

“Who, my darling?  No one is here.  You have been dreaming love.  Waken up quite.  See, it is broad daylight.”

“Yes,” said Ailsie, looking round her; then clinging to her mother, said, “but a man was here in the night, mother.”

“Nonsense, little goose.  No man has ever come near you!”

“Yes, he did.  He stood there.  Just by Norah.  A man with hair and a beard.  And he knelt down and said his prayers.  Norah knows he was here, mother” (half angrily, as Mrs. Openshaw shook her head in smiling incredulity).

“Well! we will ask Norah when she comes,” said Mrs. Openshaw, soothingly.  “But we won’t talk any more about him now.  It is not five o’clock; it is too early for you to get up.  Shall I fetch you a book and read to you?”

“Don’t leave me, mother,” said the child, clinging to her.  So Mrs. Openshaw sate on the bedside talking to Ailsie, and telling her of what they had done at Richmond the evening before, until the little girl’s eyes slowly closed and she once more fell asleep.

“What was the matter?” asked Mr. Openshaw, as his wife returned to bed.  “Ailsie wakened up in a fright, with some story of a man having been in the room to say his prayers,—­a dream, I suppose.”  And no more was said at the time.