Olga walked to the station to meet them.  Mrs. Hannaford having paid unusual attention to her dress—­she had long since ceased to care how she looked, save on very exceptional occasions—­moved impatiently, nervously, about the house and the garden.  Her age was not yet forty, but a life of disappointment and unrest had dulled her complexion, made her movements languid, and was beginning to touch with grey her soft, wavy hair.  Under happier circumstances she would have been a most attractive woman; her natural graces were many, her emotions were vivid and linked with a bright intelligence, her natural temper inclined to the nobler modes of life.  Unfortunately, little care had been given to her education; her best possibilities lay undeveloped; thrown upon her inadequate resources, she nourished the weaknesses instead of the virtues of her nature.  She was always saying to herself that life had gone by, and was wasted; for life meant love, and love in her experience had been a flitting folly, an error of crude years, which should, in all justice, have been thrown aside and forgotten, allowing her a second chance.  Too late, now.  Often she lay through the long nights shedding tears of misery.  Too late; her beauty blurred, her heart worn with suffering, often poisoned with bitterness.  Yet there came moments of revolt, when she rose and looked at herself in the mirror, and asked——­But for Olga, she would have tried to shape her own destiny.

To-day she could look up at the sunshine.  Irene was coming.

A sound of young voices in the quiet road; then the shimmer of a bright costume, the gleam of a face all health and charm and merriment.  Irene came into the garden, followed by her brother, and behind them Olga.

Her voice woke the dull house; of a sudden it was alive, responding to the cheerful mood of its inhabitants.  The rooms had a new appearance; sunlight seemed to penetrate to every shadowed comer; colours were brighter, too familiar objects became interesting.  The dining-room table, commonly so uninviting, gleamed as for a festival.  Irene’s eyes fell on everything and diffused her own happy spirit.  Irene had an excellent appetite; everyone enjoyed the meal.  This girl could not but bestow something of herself on all with whom she came together; where she felt liking, her influence was incalculable.

“How much better you look than when I last saw you.” she said to her aunt.  “Ewell evidently suits you.”

And at once Mrs. Hannaford felt that she was stronger, younger, than she had thought.  Yes, she felt better than for a long time, and Ewell was exactly suited to her health.

“Is that pastel yours, Olga?  Admirable!  The best thing of yours I ever saw.”

And Olga, who had thought her pastel worthless, saw all at once that it really was not bad; she glowed with gratification.