Had she, then, wholly outgrown the bitter experiences of her childhood?  Had the cruelty which tortured her during the years when the soul is being fashioned left upon her no brand of slavish vice, nor the baseness of those early associations affected her with any irremovable taint?  As far as human observation could probe her, Jane Snowdon had no spot of uncleanness in her being; she had been rescued while it was yet time, and the subsequent period of fostering had enabled features of her character, which no one could have discerned in the helpless child, to expand with singular richness.  Two effects of the time of her bondage were, however, clearly to be distinguished.  Though nature had endowed her with a good intelligence, she could only with extreme labour acquire that elementary book-knowledge which vulgar children get easily enough; it seemed as if the bodily overstrain at a critical period of life had affected her memory, and her power of mental application generally.  In spite of ceaseless endeavour, she could not yet spell words of the least difficulty; she could not do the easiest sums with accuracy; geographical names were her despair.  The second point in which she had suffered harm was of more serious nature.  She was subject to fits of hysteria, preceded and followed by the most painful collapse of that buoyant courage which was her supreme charm and the source of her influence.  Without warning, an inexplicable terror would fall upon her; like the weakest child, she craved protection from a dread inspired solely by her imagination, and solace for an anguish of wretchedness to which she could give no form in words.  Happily this illness afflicted her only at long intervals, and her steadily improving health gave warrant for hoping that in time it would altogether pass away.

Whenever an opportunity had offered for struggling successfully with some form of evil—­were it poor Pennyloaf’s dangerous despair, or the very human difficulties between Bessie and her husband—­Jane lived at her highest reach of spiritual joy.  For all that there was a disappointment on her mind, she felt this joy to-night, and went about her pursuits in happy self-absorption.  So it befell that she did not hear a knock at the house-door.  Mrs. Byass answered it, and not knowing that Mr. Snowdon was from home, bade his usual visitor go upstairs.  The visitor did so, and announced his presence at the door of the room.

‘Oh, Mr. Kirkwood,’ said Jane, ’I’m so sorry, but grandfather had to go out with a gentleman.’

And she waited, looking at him, a gentle warmth on her face.

CHAPTER XVI

DIALOGUE AND COMMENT

‘Will it be late before he comes back?’ asked Sidney, his smile of greeting shadowed with disappointment.

‘Not later than half-past ten, he said.’

Sidney turned his face to the stairs.  The homeward prospect was dreary after that glimpse of the familiar mom through the doorway.  The breach of habit discomposed him, and something more positive strengthened his reluctance to be gone.  It was not his custom to hang in hesitancy and court chance by indirectness of speech; recognising and admitting his motives, he said simply: