When Mary Woodruff unlocked the house-door and entered the little hall, it smelt and felt as though the damp and sooty fogs of winter still lingered here, untouched by the July warmth.  She came alone, and straightway spent several hours in characteristic activity—­ airing, cleaning, brightening.  For a few days there would be no servant; Mary, after her long leisure down in Cornwall, enjoyed the prospect of doing all the work herself.  They had reached London last evening, and had slept at a family hotel, where Nancy remained until the house was in order for her.

Unhappily, their arrival timed with a change of weather, which brought clouds and rain.  The glories of an unshadowed sky would have little more than availed to support Nancy’s courage as she passed the creaking little gate and touched the threshold of a home to which she returned only on compulsion; gloom overhead, and puddles underfoot, tried her spirit sorely.  She had a pale face, and thin cheeks, and moved with languid step.

Her first glance was at the letter-box.

‘Nothing?’

Mary shook her head.  During their absence letters had been re-addressed by the post-office, and since the notice of return nothing had come.

‘I’m quite sure a letter has been lost.’

’Yes, it may have been.  But there’ll be an answer to your last very soon.’

‘I don’t think so.  Most likely I shall never hear again.’

And Nancy sat by the window of the front room, looking, as she had looked so many a time, at the lime tree opposite and the house visible through wet branches.  A view unchanged since she could remember; recalling all her old ambitions, revolts, pretences, and ignorances; recalling her father, who from his grave still oppressed her living heart.

Somewhere near sounded the wailing shout of a dustman.  It was like the voice of a soul condemned to purge itself in filth.

‘Mary!’ She rose up and went to the kitchen.  ’I can’t live here!  It will kill me if I have to live in this dreadful place.  Why, even you have been crying; I can see you have.  If you give way, think what it must be to me!’

‘It’s only for a day or two, dear,’ answered Mary.  ’We shall feel at home again very soon.  Miss.  Morgan will come this evening, and perhaps your brother.’

‘I must do something.  Give me some work.’

Mary could not but regard this as a healthy symptom, and she suggested tasks that called for moderate effort.  Sick of reading—­ she had read through a whole circulating library in the past six months—­Nancy bestirred herself about the house; but she avoided her father’s room.