r in the high carved
chair. There was always, in the hottest weather, a fire burning, always
Dorchester, a large ugly woman, behind the chair, always the cockatoo
see-sawing on a golden perch and crying out every now and again with
shrill, hostile cries. And then, in the centre of this, grandmother,
with her terrible hands, her terrible nose, her terrible eyes, and, most
terrible of all, her voice.

Rachel would sit upright on her chair, and very often nothing would be
said throughout the half-hour. Sometimes Dorchester would ask questions,
such as: "And what has Miss Rachel been doing to-day?" "Did Miss Rachel
enjoy her walk in the park this afternoon?" "Has Miss Rachel enjoyed her
lessons to-day?" Sometimes, and these were the terrible occasions, her
grandmother would speak: "Well, have you been a good little girl?" or
"Tell me what you have been doing, child."

At the sound of that voice the room would flood with terror: the child
would still, by an effort of will, her body. She could feel now, from
all that distance of years, the discipline that it had needed to steady
her little black legs that dangled from her chair. She learnt, in time,
to control herself so that she could give long answers in a grave,
reserved tone.

The old lady never moved as she spoke, only bent forward and stared at
her, as though she would see whether it were the truth that she were
speaking.

As the days passed and Rachel grew older it was around this half-hour
that the house ranged itself. The things in it--the rooms, the passages,
the stairs, the high, cold schoolroom with its shining maps and large
frigid table, the tapestry room, long and dark and mysterious with
strange beasts and horsemen waving in the dusk, the white drawing-room
so delicate and fragile that the furniture seemed to be all holding its
breath as though a little motion in the air would dissipate it, the vast
dining-room with the great hanging candelabra, and the family portraits
and the stone fireplace--all these things existed only that that
terrible half-hour might fling its shadow about the day.

The child was much alone; she had governesses, a music master, a drawing
master, but from these persons, however friendly they might be, she held
aloof. She told them nothing of her thoughts. She had behind her her
very early years that were now to her like a dream; she did not know
that it had ever really existed, that picture of snow and some dark kind
figure that w