It was a beautiful afternoon, of the first Sunday in October, and she betook herself to the garden with the ‘Lyra Innocentium’ in her hand, meaning to learn the poem for the day.  She wandered up to the rail above the cliff, looking out to the sea.  Here, beyond the belt of tamarisks and other hardy low-growing shrubs which gave a little protection from the winds, the wall dividing the garden of Beechcroft Cottage from that of Cliff House became low, with only the iron-spiked railing on the top, as perhaps there was a desire not to overload the cliff.  The sea was of a lovely colour that day, soft blue, and with exquisite purple shadows of clouds, with ripples of golden sparkles here and there near the sun, and Gillian stood leaning against the rail, gazing out on it, with a longing, yearning feeling towards the dear ones who had gone out upon it, when she became conscious that some one was in the other garden, which she had hitherto thought quite deserted, and looking round, she saw a figure in black near the rail.  Their eyes met, and both together exclaimed—–­

‘Kalliope!’—–­’Miss Gillian!  Oh, I beg your pardon!’

‘How did you come here?  I thought nobody did!’

’Mr. White’s gardener lets us walk here.  It is so nice and quiet.  Alexis has taken the younger ones for a walk, but I was too much tired.  But I will not disturb you—–­’

’Oh! don’t go away.  Nobody will disturb us, and I do so want to know about you all.  I had no notion, nor mamma either, that you were living here, or—–­’

‘Or of my dear father’s death!’ said Kalliope, as Gillian stopped short, confused.  ’I did write to Miss Merrifield, but the letter was returned.’

‘But where did you write?’

‘To Swanage, where she had written to me last.’

’Oh! we were only there for six weeks, while we were looking for houses; I suppose it was just as the Wardours were gone to Natal too?’

‘Yes, we knew they were out of reach.’

’But do tell me about it, if you do not mind.  My father will want to hear.’

Kalliope told all in a calm, matter-of-fact way, but with a strain of deep suppressed feeling.  She was about twenty-three, a girl with a fine outline of features, beautiful dark eyes, and a clear brown skin, who would have been very handsome if she had looked better fed and less hardworked.  Her Sunday dress showed wear and adaptation, but she was altogether ladylike, and even the fringe that had startled Aunt Ada only consisted of little wavy curls on the temples, increasing her classical look.

’It was fever—–­at Leeds.  My father was just going into a situation in the police that we had been waiting for ever so long, and there were good schools, and Richard had got into a lawyer’s office, when there began a terrible fever in our street—–­the drains were to blame, they said—–­and every one of us had it, except mother and Richard, who did not sleep at home.  We lost poor little Mary first, and then papa seemed to be getting better; but he was anxious about expense, and there was no persuading him to take nourishment enough.  I do believe it was that.  And he had a relapse—–­and—–­’