y waiting for his return. Petsy, to the
great benefit of his health, got somewhat neglected by her; her whole
nature and instincts were alight with the mother-love that had burnt
so late into flame, with this tragic accompaniment of derangement. She
seemed to be groping her way back to the days when Michael was a little
boy, and she was a young woman; often she would seat herself at her
piano, if Michael was not there to play to her, and in a thin, quavering
voice sing the songs of twenty years ago. She would listen to his
playing, beating time to his music, and most of all she loved the hour
when the day was drawing in, and the first shadow and flame of dusk and
firelight; then, with her hand in his, sitting in her room, where
they would not be interrupted, she would whisper fresh inquiries about
Sylvia, offering to go herself to the girl and tell her how lovable
her suitor was. She lived in a dim, subaqueous sort of consciousness,
physically quite well, and mentally serene in the knowledge that Michael
was in the house, and would presently come and talk to her.

For the others it was dismal enough; this shadow, that was to her a
watery sunlight, lay over them all--this, and the further quarrel,
unknown to her, between Michael and his father. When they all met, as
at meal times, there was the miserable pretence of friendliness and
comfortable ease kept up, for fear of distressing Lady Ashbridge. It
was dreary work for all concerned, but, luckily, not difficult of
accomplishment. A little chatter about the weather, the merest small
change of conversation, especially if that conversation was held between
Michael and his father, was sufficient to wreathe her in smiles, and
she would, according to habit, break in with some wrecking remark, that
entailed starting this talk all afresh. But when she left the room a
glowering silence would fall; Lord Ashbridge would pick up a book or
leave the room with his high-stepping walk and erect head, the picture
of insulted dignity.

Of the three he was far most to be pitied, although the situation
was the direct result of his own arrogance and self-importance; but
arrogance and self-importance were as essential ingredients of his
character as was humour of Aunt Barbara's. They were very awkward and
tiresome qualities, but this particular Lord Ashbridge would have
no existence without them. He was deeply and mortally offended with
Michael; that alone was sufficient to make a sultry an