I was lying outside the bed, and it was broad day. I couldn't think what had happened. Then I remembered the voice. Had I heard it? Had James called to me? Or was it a dream? If so it was the strangest dream ever heard of. The door opened and the children came running in. So soon as they were old enough James never would let them sleep in the same room with us. So long as he was there I didn't mind; but when he wasn't I wanted them for company. Yet I felt that I couldn't do what he didn't like. But every morning, as soon as they were awake, they'd come rushing in to me. And that was something. But now that the mornings were getting colder I wasn't sure that it was wise: though I hadn't the heart to stop them, for I did love to have them for a few minutes in my arms with me in bed. And they loved to come. Somehow it seemed to make the day have a better beginning.

It was that day all the strange things began to happen. Though I had no notion of anything of the kind as I listened to the children's chatter. We'd finished breakfast some time. I'd washed the things, and tidied up the place. Indeed I'd been round the corner to get the dinner. Liver and bacon we were going to have--the children are so fond of the gravy--and a baked rice pudding. I had just set Jimmy down to table and he was starting to learn his letters. There are some who say he ought to go to school: but I don't hold with children going to school so young, away from their mother, nor, I am thankful to say, does James either. I can give them all the teaching he wants. I've the time and I've the will; and I'm scholar enough for that. The way that boy picks up things is wonderful. He's a deal quicker than me--which perhaps isn't saying much. But he'll read before some of them who go to school--and so I can tell them. He knows his letters quite well, both large and small, and he can make out little words. And before long I'm going to start him writing.

As I was saying, I'd set him down to table with his book, and Pollie--little pet!--was drawing what she calls 'Injuns,' on her slate. It was Jimmy started her doing that; that boy's full of Indians; where he got them from I can't think. And I was getting out my mending, of which there always does seem plenty, when there came a knock at the door. We were in the parlour--for James never will have us in the kitchen more than can be helped. He says if a parlour's not for living in, what's it for?

'Who's that?' I wondered. 'I do hope it's none of the neighbours come gossiping just as Jimmy's starting reading'--for the neighbours round our part will gossip--'and in particular I do hope it isn't that FitzHoward.'

It wasn't either. When I saw who it was you might, as the saying is, have knocked me down with a feather.

It was the lady who'd asked me all the questions at Mr. Howarth's. Dressed that beautiful she was like a picture. The sight of her made me forget my manners. I stared, feeling as if I could hardly believe my eyes.

'You seem surprised,' she said. Surprise wasn't the word! 'I hope I haven't arrived at an inconvenient hour. May I come in?'

'Of course, miss; and welcome.'

She went into the parlour, making it look like a different room. I was ashamed of myself, but I couldn't take my eyes from off her.

'Have you had any news of your husband?'

'No, miss; that I haven't.'

'Are these your children?'

'Yes, miss, they are.'

'But you're quite a child.'

'I'm twenty-three.'

'Twenty-three! You don't look twenty. How is it that you manage to look so young?' She sat down by the table. 'What is your little boy's name?'

'Jimmy.'

'Jimmy? Why do you call him that?'

'His father's name is James.'

'James? Hasn't he another name?'

'I've never heard him speak of it.'

'What pretty children they are--and how beautifully you keep them!'

Her words made me tingle; because, although I say it, there are no children round these parts who are kept like mine. She sat staring at Jimmy; and he didn't seem a bit afraid.

'Come here,' she said. He went, and she put him on her knee. 'He's like his father.'

'That's what I say, miss.'

'He has his father's eyes.'

Which was a fact. Though how she knew it was is more than I could say. Pollie, who always follows Jimmy, had placed herself beside her brother.

'The girl's like you; though she's not so pretty as her mother.'

'Oh, miss, you shouldn't talk like that; especially before the children. Besides, I'm not pretty now. I know I was once, because they used to tell me so. But now I'm old.'

'Old? Oh, yes, you're very old. I wish I was as young, and half as pretty.'

'Oh, miss.' I stammered--through being that eager to say something I knew I didn't ought to--'if you'll excuse me for making so free, you're the most beautiful lady I ever saw.'

She laughed right out.

'Then you've never seen a looking-glass, because I assure you I was never half so pretty as you are at this minute. It seems odd for two women to be paying each other compliments, but yours is the kind of face which is seen only once in a generation. Tell me--how did you meet your husband?'

I told her the whole story. She listened, as it seemed to me, with wonder.

'How strange! And you married him, knowing nothing about him except what he told you.'

'He told me nothing.'

'But you must have known something of his previous history--what he'd been, and what he'd done.'

'I never thought to ask.'

'But he's told you since.'

'He hasn't; not a word. He never talks of himself at all.'

'But, my child, you must know something of him at this time of day. Where are his parents--his relations?'

'I don't think he has any. I've never met them, and he's never spoken of them to me. I've heard him say that his mother died before his father, and that his father and he didn't get on.'

'They did not.' I wondered how she knew. 'By the way, what is your Christian name?'

'Mary, miss.'

'Mary? A good old-fashioned name. I love it. You look sweet and pure enough even to be a Mary.' I wished she wouldn't talk like that; she made me tingle. 'I am Edith Desmond. Have you ever heard the name?'

'Not that I remember, miss; and I don't think I should have forgotten if I had.'

'I am going to ask you a strange question; especially coming from a stranger. But I want you to tell me; do you love your husband?'

'Love him!' I felt a catching of my breath. The idea of her asking if I loved him! 'There's nothing I wouldn't do for love of him. He's my man.'

'Your man? That's another good old-fashioned word. Your man!' She seemed to hesitate before she spoke again. 'Have you--have you your husband's photograph?'

'Heaps, miss. He's always having them taken. I think it's something to do with his profession.'

I went to the drawer, and took out a pile. The first she looked at she gave a start. She put her lips together, and a hard look came on her face. She looked older, and not so beautiful as she sat staring at my James's portrait, as if she was looking at a ghost. It was quite a minute before she spoke; and then it was to herself rather than to me.

'It's he. I wonder what it all means.'

The way she'd changed made me half-afraid of her; but I plucked up courage to put a question which was slipping, as it were, off the tip of my tongue.

'Begging your pardon, miss, but--do you know my James?'

'Once I knew him very well. He was--he was a friend of my family.'

My heart gave a jump against my ribs.

'Then he was a gentleman? I always knew he was a gentleman! That makes it all the more wonderful that he should ever have married me.'

Her lips twisted themselves up in a way I didn't like.

'There was nothing wonderful in that. You might have married any one you liked, if you had known how to play your cards, my dear.' She kept looking at the likenesses, one after the other. 'He makes a good photograph; he comes out well in all of them. And in appearance, he doesn't seem to have materially changed.'

'He hasn't changed one bit since the day that first I saw him.'

When she'd seen all the likenesses she began to tap against the table with the edge of one, as if she was turning something over in her mind.

'Mary?'

'Yes, miss.'

'Don't call me miss. Call me--well, there'll be time enough for that.' She smiled--though what at I could not say. 'What should you do if you met with a sudden change of fortune?'

'I shouldn't mind being poorer, with James.'

'I don't mean in that direction, but in the other. What should you say at being richer?'

'Thank you, miss.'

She laughed.

'Is that all?'

'Of course, I should say more than that. But I couldn't tell you what I should say till it happens. It depends. And I'm afraid I'm not much good at saying anyhow. Of course, the money would be welcome.'

'For what?'

'All sorts of things. Everything seems to cost more as time goes on. As the children grow up they cost more. Then I want to send them to a proper school--and not to a Board School, where you pay nothing. I want them to be educated like gentlefolk's children--so that they may grow up to be like their father, and not like me.'

'They may grow up to be ashamed of their mother.'

'Never. I love them too much ever to be afraid of that.'

'You're a lucky woman.'

'I know I'm lucky.'

'Which makes your luck still greater. Do you know that since I've been in this room it's grown upon me more and more that you're one of those persons on whom the gods shower fortune.'

'I'm glad to hear it, miss--though I don't know what you mean.'

'You queer child! With how much more money could you do?'

'Well, I can hardly say. You see, James is very generous. He gives me a good three pounds a week, and often more.'

'Three pounds a week! What would you say to three pounds a day?'

'Three pounds a day!' I stared. 'Of course, I know that there are people who have that amount of money, but I don't know what use it would be to me--unless it was for James.'

'I see. Always James?'

'Yes, miss, always James.'

She eyed me sharply, as if she wasn't sure what it was I meant. Though I don't know what I'd said that wasn't plain. All this time she'd had the children on her knee. Now she put them down and began to walk about the room. I thought how tall she was; almost a head above me. I've always wished I wasn't so little. I wished it more than ever when I saw how beautiful she was. The idea of her comparing herself with me was too ridiculous.

After a time she began to talk again; still moving about.

'Mary, I want to ask you something else, and think before you answer.--Did I understand you to say yesterday that your husband enjoys good health?'

'Always, miss. He's never had an hour's illness since I've known him.'

'You're sure of it?'

'Quite sure, miss.'

'He hasn't, for instance, to your knowledge, a weak heart?'

'A weak heart? He's nothing of the kind. He's strong as strong can be. I'm sure of it.'

'Does he look well?'

'The picture of health.'

'On that Sunday morning, when you last saw him, was he looking well when he went out?'

'Perfectly well.'

'And he was well?'

'As well as well could be.'

'And you say he wasn't liable to sudden attacks of illness?'

'Nothing of the kind. Who's been telling you stories about my James?'

'Then the only thing I can say is that I don't understand it in the least.'

She seemed to be speaking to herself rather than to me; and it's not for me to pretend that I know what she meant. The only thing I know is that what I said was clear enough. She went back to the table and began looking through James's photographs again, examining them that closely you'd have thought they were puzzles.

'It's impossible that there can be any mistake; impossible. And yet, how can he have gone out in perfect health upon the Sunday, and--It's beyond my comprehension. There's a knot somewhere which wants unpicking. Do you know I'm inclined to think that you know even less about your husband than you suppose.'

'I know all I want to know.'

'I mean with reference to his health. I fancy that he had not such good health as you seem to imagine.'

'You must excuse me saying, miss, that I can't help what you fancy. May I ask what you know about my husband?'

'I?'

'Yes, miss--you!'

She looked at me as if my question had startled her. Then she laughed; it seemed to me not quite a natural laugh; as if she wanted to appear at her ease when she wasn't.

'Mary, I'll be frank with you. I came this morning because I wanted to find out how much I really do know about him.'

'I don't understand.'

'If I knew him----'

'If? You said just now you did.'

'The only thing which makes me doubt is what you say about his health. The person I knew was an invalid; so great an invalid that his life was despaired of.'

'That's not my James. How long ago is it since you knew him?'

'How long? Oh'--she was tapping the table again with the corner of one of his photographs--'fifteen years.'

'Fifteen years? Why, that's before I knew him--I was only in short frocks. I've come into his life since that. He may have been ill then, and all you say. If he was, then marrying me has done him good. You'd never have thought it if you'd known him as I have these six years. Do those children look as though they had a sick father? No!--they're like him--strong as strong. I tell you, my James is as sound and healthy a man as there is in England; and if you ever see him you won't need for him to tell you so himself to know it.'

She looked at me, I couldn't help thinking, a little queerly, half laughing, half solemn.

'Mary, any one would think I'd been traducing your husband's character in suggesting that he might be an invalid.'

'Well, I don't like to hear any one keep saying he's weak when I know he's not.'

'Then he's not. He's as strong as a cart-horse--or two, if you prefer it--and always shall be; and there's an end.' She changed her tone all of a sudden and became quite brisk. 'My dear child, I'm afraid that by this unconsciously long visit of mine I'm hindering you in your household duties. Is there anything that you might be wanting to do?'

'Well, I did want to put the rice in soak; I'm going to make a pudding.'

'A pudding? Then the rice shall be put in soak. Come along, little lady; and you, young man.' She caught up Pollie, and took Jimmy by the hand. 'Let's go and see mother put that rice in soak.'

I hardly knew what to make of it. I didn't want to have a real lady in my little kitchen watching me make a small rice pudding. But she never gave me a chance to say so, she carried things off with such an air. She marched out of the room in front of me, Pollie in her arms, and Jimmy holding her hand. And, of course, like the little goose he was, he must lead her straight to where I didn't want him. So that there she was in the kitchen almost before I knew it. As I have said, I didn't know what to make of her at all--she did carry on in such a fashion, talking about all sorts of things at once; pretending to be interested in the pudding; playing such pranks with the children--they were in raptures. And she dressed that beautiful--a queen in her robes couldn't have looked better. Altogether she reminded me of Mr. FitzHoward the night before; playing, as it were, the fool, to hide what she was thinking of. Though what that was--or what she was doing in my house at all--was beyond me altogether.

Just as she was at the height of her capers there came a knocking at the front door.

'There!' she cried. 'Now, mother, go and open the door, and I'll be nurse to the children. So, Mistress Mary, off you go.'

And off I did go, feeling pretty muddled at being ordered about in my own house like that, and hoping to goodness that those two wouldn't spoil all her lovely things before she'd done with them.

You can imagine my feelings--or, rather, nobody ever could, because they were beyond my own imagining--when, on opening the door, I saw, standing on the step, the Honourable Douglas Howarth. It isn't often I'd had visits from the gentry, but now they'd once started it seemed as if they were going to keep on. There was Miss Desmond, as she said her name was, helping me make a rice pudding--as if she herself had ever seen one made in all her life before!--and carrying on with my two youngsters in the kitchen, just as much at her ease, for all I could see, as if children and kitchens were what she always had been used to; and now, if I could believe my eyes, was an Earl's son, come, as it seemed, to keep her company. I hoped that he wouldn't want to lend a hand at the pudding too.