ter to Miss Martin. She lay prone in a
corner of the sofa, dreaming, as she had done all her life; save that
the faculty--of setting in motion at will a stream of vivid and
connected images--which had always been one of her chief pleasures, was
now an obsession and a torment. How often, in her wakeful nights at
Rydal, had she lived over again every moment in the walk to Blea Tarn,
till at last, gathered once more on George's knees, and nestling to his
breast, she had fallen asleep--comforted.

She went through it all, once more, in this strange room, as the
darkness closed; only the vision ended now, not in a tender thrill--half
conscious, fading into sleep--of remembered joy, but in an anguish of
sobbing, the misery of the frail tormented creature, unable to bear its
life.

Nevertheless sleep came. For nights she had scarcely slept, and in the
silence immediately round her the distant sounds gradually lost their
dreary note, and became a rhythmical and soothing influence. She fell
into a deep unconsciousness.

* * * * *

An hour later, a tall man rang at the outer door of the flat. Mrs.
Simpson obeyed the summons, and found Sir William Farrell on the
threshold.

'Well, have they come?'

'Oh, yes, sir.' And Mrs. Simpson gave a rapid, _sotto voce_ account of
the visitors' arrival, their lunch, Mrs. Sarratt's sad looks--'poor
little lady!'--and much else.

Sir William stepped in.

'Are they at home?'

Mrs. Simpson shook her head.

'They went out after lunch, Sir William, and I have not heard them come
in.'

Which, of course, was a mistake on the part of Mrs. Simpson, who,
hearing the front door close half an hour after luncheon and no
subsequent movement in the flat, had supposed that the sisters had gone
out together.

'All right. I'll wait for them. I want to see Mrs. Sarratt before I
start. You may get me a cup of tea, if you like.'

Mrs. Simpson disappeared with alacrity, and Farrell crossed the hall to
the drawing-room. He turned on the light as he opened the door, and was
at once aware of Nelly's slight form on the sofa. She did not move, and
something in her attitude--some rigidity that he fancied--alarmed him.
He took a few steps, and then saw that there was no cause for alarm. She
was only asleep, poor child, profoundly, pathetically asleep. Her utter
unconsciousness, the delicate hand and arm lying over the edge of the
sofa, and the gleam of her white forehead un