er, of course, wrote to her often,
for he was managing all her affairs. But my mother wrote to her
also--though this my father, I do not think, knew--long letters that she
would go away by herself to pen, writing them always in the twilight,
close to the window.

"Why do you choose this time, just when it's getting dark, to write your
letters," my father would expostulate, when by chance he happened to
look into the room. "Let me ring for the lamp, you will strain your
eyes." But my mother would always excuse herself, saying she had only a
few lines to finish.

"I can think better in this light," she would explain.

And when Mrs. Teidelmann returned, it was my mother who was the first
to call upon her; before even my father knew that she was back. And from
thence onward one might have thought them the closest of friends, my
mother visiting her often, speaking of her to all in terms of praise and
liking.

In this way peace returned unto the house, and my father was tender
again in all his words and actions towards my mother, and my mother
thoughtful as before of all his wants and whims, her voice soft and low,
the sweet smile ever lurking around her lips as in the old days before
this evil thing had come to dwell among us; and I might have forgotten
it had ever cast its blight upon our life but that every day my mother
grew feebler, the little ways that had seemed a part of her gone from
her.

The summer came and went--that time in towns of panting days and
stifling nights, when through the open window crawls to one's face the
hot foul air, heavy with reeking odours drawn from a thousand streets;
when lying awake one seems to hear the fitful breathing of the myriad
mass around, as of some over-laboured beast too tired to even rest; and
my mother moved about the house ever more listlessly.

"There's nothing really the matter with her," said Dr. Hal, "only
weakness. It is the place. Cannot you get her away from it?"

"I cannot leave myself," said my father, "just yet; but there is no
reason why you and the boy should not take a holiday. This year I can
afford it, and later I might possibly join you."

My mother consented, as she did to all things now, and so it came about
that again of afternoons we climbed--though more slowly and with many
pauses--the steep path to the ruined tower old Jacob in his happy
foolishness had built upon the headland, rested once again upon its
topmost platform, sheltered from the wind