spring at Venice or at
Constantinople, thence to a June in Paris, a July and August at the
bathing places, a September at Aix, an autumn in Paris again. But always
she came back to the sleeping-car. It was the one familiar room which was
always ready for her; and though the prospect from its windows changed,
it was the one room she knew which had always the same look, the same
cramped space, the same furniture--the one room where, the moment she
stepped into it, she was at home.

Yet on this particular journey she woke while it was yet dark. A noise
slight in comparison to the clatter of the train, but distinct in
character and quite near, told her at once what had disturbed her. Some
one was moving stealthily in the compartment--her daughter. That was all.
But Mrs. Thesiger lay quite still, and, as would happen to her at times,
a sudden terror gripped her by the heart. She heard the girl beneath her,
dressing very quietly, subduing the rustle of her garments, even the
sound of her breathing.

"How much does she know?" Mrs. Thesiger asked of herself; and her heart
sank and she dared not answer.

The rustling ceased. A sharp click was heard, and the next moment through
a broad pane of glass a faint twilight crept into the carriage. The blind
had been raised from one of the windows. It was two o'clock on a morning
of July and the dawn was breaking. Very swiftly the daylight broadened,
and against the window there came into view the profile of a girl's head
and face. Seen as Mrs. Thesiger saw it, with the light still dim behind
it, it was black like an ancient daguerreotype. It was also as motionless
and as grave.

"How much does she know?"

The question would thrust itself into the mother's thoughts. She watched
her daughter intently from the dark corner where her head lay, thinking
that with the broadening of the day she might read the answer in that
still face. But she read nothing even when every feature was revealed in
the clear dead light, for the face which she saw was the face of one who
lived much apart within itself, building amongst her own dreams as a
child builds upon the sand and pays no heed to those who pass. And to
none of her dreams had Mrs. Thesiger the key. Deliberately her daughter
had withdrawn herself amongst them, and they had given her this return
for her company. They had kept her fresh and gentle in a circle where
freshness was soon lost and gentleness put aside.

Sylvia Thesiger was at t