“Goody—­goody—­good-good!” shouted Jim, and Derry joined in with a triumphant shriek, and clasped his arms tightly about his mother’s knees.  Rachael had turned a little pale, but she kissed both boys, and only left them long enough to change her gown to something loose and comfortable.

Then she came back to the nursery, and there were baths, and games, and suppers, and then stories and prayers before the fire, Mary and Rachael laughing over the fluffy heads, revelling in the beauty of the little bodies.

When they were in bed she went down to a solitary dinner, and, as she ate it, her thoughts went back to other solitary dinners years ago.  Utter discouragement and something like a great, all-enveloping fear possessed her.  She was afraid of life.  She had dented her armor, broken her steel, she had been flung back and worsted in the fight.

What was the secret, then, Rachael asked the fire, if youth and beauty and high hopes and great love failed like so many straws?  Why was Alice contented, and she, Rachael, torn by a thousand conflicting hopes and fears?  Why was it, that with all her cleverness, and all her beauty, the woman who had been Rachael Fairfax, and Rachael Breckenridge, and Rachael Gregory, had never yet felt sure of joy, had never dared lay hands upon it boldly, and know it to be her own, had trembled, and apprehended, and distrusted where women of infinitely lesser gifts had been able to enter into the kingdom with such utter certainty and serenity?

Sitting through the long evening by the fire, in the drowsy silence of the big drawing-room, Rachael felt her eyes grow heavy.  Who was unhappy, who was happy—­what was all life about anyway—­

Dennison and old Mary came in at eleven, and looked at her for a long five minutes.  Their eyes said a great many things, although neither spoke aloud.  The fire had burned low, the light of a shaded lamp fell softly on the sleeping woman’s face.  There was a little frown between the beautiful brows, and once she sighed lightly, like a child.

The man stepped softly back into the hall, and Mary touched her mistress.

“Mrs. Gregory, you’ve dropped off to sleep!”

Rachael roused, looked up, smiling bewilderedly.  Her look seemed to search the shadows beyond the old woman’s form.  Slowly the new look of strain and sorrow came back into her eyes.

“Why, so I did!” she said, getting to her feet.  “I think I’ll go upstairs.  Any message from Doctor Gregory?”

“No message, Mrs. Gregory.”

“Thank you, Mary, good-night!” Rachael went slowly out through the dimly lighted arch of the hall doorway, and slowly upstairs.  She deliberately passed the nursery door.  Her heart was too full to risk a visit to the boys to-night.  She lighted her room and sank dazedly into a chair.

“I dreamed that we were just married, and in the old studio,” she said, half aloud.  “I dreamed I had the old-feeling again, of being so sure, and so beloved!  I thought Warren had come home early and had brought me violets!”