f youth or of physical health--which
would seem, indeed, to be the peculiar dowry of those women who, having
once known love in all its completeness and its strength, of choice
live ever afterwards in perfect chastity of act and thought.

And a perception not only of the grace of her person, as she sat
sideways on the window-seat in her close-fitting, gray gown, with its
frilled lace collar and ruffles at the wrists, came to Richard now. He
perceived something of this more intimate and subtle charm which
belonged to her. He was enthralled by the clear sweetness, as of dewy
grass newly turned by the scythe, which always clung about her, and by
the whispering of her silken garments when she moved. A sudden
reverence for her came upon him, as though, behind her gracious and so
familiar figure, he apprehended that which belonged to a region
superior, almost divine. And then he was seized--it is too often the
fate of worshippers--with jealousy of that past of hers of which he had
been, until now, ignorant. And yet another emotion shook him, for, in
thus realising and differentiating her personality, he had grown
vividly, almost painfully, conscious of his own.

He turned away, laying his cheek against the stone window-ledge, while
the drops of a passing scud of rain beat in on his hot face.

"Then--then my father never saw me," he exclaimed vehemently. And,
after a moment's pause, added, "I am glad of that--very glad."

"Ah! But, my dearest," Lady Calmady cried, bewildered and aghast, "you
don't know what you are saying--think."

Richard kept his face to the splashing rain.

"I don't want to say anything wrong; but," he repeated, "I am glad."

He turned to her, his lips quivering a little, and a desolate
expression in his eyes, which told Katherine, with only too bitter
assurance, that his childhood and the repose of it were indeed over and
gone.

She held out her arms to him in silent invitation, and drew the dear
curly head on to her bosom.

"You're not displeased with me, mummy?"

"Does this seem as if I was displeased?" she asked.

Then they sat silent once more, Katherine swaying a little as she held
him, soothing him almost as in his baby days.

"I won't lean out of the window again," he said presently, with a sigh
of comfort. "I promise that."

"There's a darling. But I am afraid we must go. Uncle Roger will be
here soon."

The boy raised his head.

"Mother," he said quickly, "will you send Clara, p