A resolution thus taken is not, however, strong enough to overcome the habits which have grown with years. Mrs. Trevanion had been so long in the background that she shrank from the idea of presenting herself again to what seemed to her the view of the world. She postponed all further steps with a conscious cowardice, at which, with faint humor, she was still able to smile.

“We are two owls,” she said. “Jane, we will make a little reconnaissance first in the evening. There is still a moon, though it is a little late, and the lake in the moonlight is a fine sight.”

“But, Madam, you were not thinking of the lake,” said Jane.

“No,” her mistress said; “the sight of a roof and four walls within which are—that is more to you and me than the most beautiful scenery in the world. And to think for how many years I had nothing to do but to walk from my room to the nursery to see them all!”

Jane shook her head with silent sympathy. “And it will be so again,” she said, soothingly, “when Mr. Rex is of age. I have always said to myself it would come right then.”

It was now Madam’s turn to shake her head. The smile died away from her face. “I would rather not,” she said, hurriedly, “put him to that proof. It would be a terrible test to put a young creature to. Oh, no, no, Jane! If he failed, how could I bear it?—or did for duty what should be done for love? No, no; the boy must not be put to such a test.”

In the evening she carried out her idea of making a reconnaissance. She set out when the moon was rising in a vaporous autumnal sky, clearing slowly as the light increased. Madam threw back the heavy veil which she usually wore, and breathed in the keen, sweet air with almost a pang of pleasure. She grasped Jane’s arm as they drove slowly round the tufted mound upon which the house of Bonport stood; then, as the coachman paused for further instructions in the shade of a little eminence on the farther side, she whispered breathlessly that she would walk a little way, and see it nearer. They got out, accordingly, both mistress and maid, tremulous with excitement. All was so still; not a creature about; the lighted windows shining among the trees; there seemed no harm in venturing within the gate, which was open, in ascending the slope a little way. Mrs. Trevanion had begun to say faintly, half to herself, half to her companion, “This is vanity; it is no use,” when, suddenly, her grasp upon Jane’s arm tightened so that the faithful maid had to make an effort not to cry out. “What is that?” she said, in a shrill whisper, at Jane’s ear. It was nothing more than a little speck, but it moved along under the edge of the overhanging trees, with evident life in it; a speck which, as it emerged into the moonlight, became of a dazzling whiteness, like a pale flame gliding across the solid darkness. They both stood still for a moment in awe and wonder, clinging to each other. Then Madam forsook her maid’s arm, and went forward with a swift and noiseless step very different from her former lingering. Jane followed, breathless, afraid, not capable of the same speed. No doubt had been in Mrs. Trevanion’s mind from the first. The night air lifted now and then a lock of the child’s hair, and blew cold through her long, white night-dress, but she went on steadily towards the side of the lake. Once more Amy was absorbed in her dream that her mother was waiting for her there; and, and unconscious, wrapped in her sleep, had set out to find the one great thing wanting in her life. The mother followed her, conscious of nothing save a great throbbing of head and heart. Thus they went on till the white breadth of the lake, flooded with moonlight, lay before them. Then, for the first time, Amy wavered. She came to a pause; something disturbed the absorption of her state, but without awaking her. “Mamma,” she said, “where are you, mamma?”

“I am here, my darling.” Mrs. Trevanion’s voice was choked, and scarcely audible, in the strange mystery of this encounter. She dared not clasp her child in her arms, but stood trembling, watching every indication, terrified to disturb the illusion, yet hungering for the touch of the little creature who was her own. Amy’s little face showed no surprise, its lines softened with a smile of pleasure; she put out her cold hand and placed it in that which trembled to receive it. It was no wonder to Amy, in her dream, to put her hand into her mother’s. She gave herself up to this beloved guidance without any surprise or doubt, and obeyed the impulse given her without the least resistance, with a smile of heavenly satisfaction on her face. All Amy’s troubles were over when her hand was in her mother’s hand. Nor was her little soul, in its soft confusion and unconsciousness, aware of any previous separation, or any transport of reunion. She went where her mother led, calm as if that mother had never been parted from her. As for Mrs. Trevanion, the tumult of trouble and joy in her soul is impossible to describe. She made an imperative gesture to Jane, who had come panting after her, and now stood half stupefied in the way, only prevented by that stupor of astonishment from bursting out into sobs and cries. Her mistress could not speak; her face was not visible in the shadow as she turned her back upon the lake which revealed this wonderful group fully against its shining background. There was no sound audible but the faint stir of the leaves, the plash of the water, the cadence of her quick breathing. Jane followed in an excitement almost as overpowering. There was not a word said. Mrs. Trevanion turned back and made her way through the trees, along the winding path, with not a pause or mistake. It was dark among the bushes, but she divined the way, and though both strength and breath would have failed her in other circumstances, there was no sign of faltering now. The little terrace in front of the house, to which they reached at last, was brilliant with moonlight. And here she paused, the child standing still in perfect calm, having resigned her very soul into her mother’s hands.

Then, for the first time, a great fainting and trembling seized upon her. She held out her disengaged hand to Jane. “What am I to do?” she said, with an appeal to which Jane, trembling, could give no reply. The closed doors, the curtained windows, were all dark. A momentary struggle rose in Mrs. Trevanion’s mind, a wild impulse to carry the child away, to take her into her bosom, to claim her natural rights, if never again, yet for this night—mingled with a terror that seemed to take her senses from her, lest the door should suddenly open, and she be discovered. Her strength forsook her when she most wanted it. Amy stood still by her side, without a movement, calm, satisfied, wrapped in unconsciousness, knowing nothing save that she had attained her desire, feeling neither cold nor fear in the depth of her dream.

“Madam,” said Jane, in an anxious whisper, “the child will catch her death. I’d have carried her. She has nothing on but her nightdress. She will catch her death.”

This roused the mother in a moment, with the simplest but most profound of arguments. She bade Jane knock at the door, and, stooping over Amy, kissed her and blessed her. Then she transferred the little hand in hers to that of her faithful maid. A shiver passed through the child’s frame, but she permitted herself to be led to the door. Jane was not so self-restrained as her mistress. She lifted the little girl in her arms and began to chafe and rub her feet. The touch, though was warm and kind, woke the little somnambulist, as the touch of the cold water had done before. She gave a scream and struggled out of Jane’s arms.

And then there was a great sound of movement and alarm from the house. The door was flung open and Rosalind rushed out and seized Amy in her arms. She was followed by half the household, the servants hurrying out one after another; and there arose a hurried tumult of questions in the midst of which Jane stole away unnoticed and escaped among the bushes, like her mistress. Mrs. Trevanion stood quite still supporting herself against a tree while all this confused commotion went on. She distinguished Russell, who came out and looked so sharply about among the dark shrubs that for a moment she felt herself discovered, and John Trevanion, who appeared with a candle in his hand, lifting it high above his head, and inquiring who it was that had brought the child back. John’s face was anxious and full of trouble; and behind him came a tall boy, slight and fair, who said there was nobody, and that Amy must have come back by herself. Then Mrs. Lennox came out with a shawl over her head, the flickering lights showing her full, comfortable person—“Who is it, John? Is there anybody? Oh, come in then, come in; it is a cold night, and the child must be put to bed.” All of them stood about in their individuality, as she had left them, while she looked on in the darkness under the rustling boughs, invisible, her eyes sometimes blurred with moisture, a smile growing about her mouth. They had not changed, except the boy—her boy! She kept her eyes on his face, through the thick shade of the leaves and the flickering of the candles. He was almost a man, God bless him—a slight mustache on his upper lip, his hair darker—and so tall, like the best of the Trevanions— God bless him! But no, no, he must not be put to that test—never to that test. She would not permit it, she said to herself, with a horrible sensation in her heart, which she did not put into words, that he could not bear it. She did not seem able to move from the support of her tree even after the door was closed and all was silent again. Jane, in alarm, groped about the bushes till she had found her mistress, but did not succeed in leading her away. “A little longer,” she said, faintly. After a while a large window on the other side of the door opened and John Trevanion came out again into the moonlight, walking up and down on the terrace with a very troubled face. By and by another figure appeared, and Rosalind joined him. “I came to tell you she is quite composed now—going to sleep again,” said Rosalind. “Oh, Uncle John, something is going to happen; it is coming nearer and nearer. I am sure that, either living or dead, Amy has seen mamma.”

“My dear, all these agitations are too much for you,” said John Trevanion. “I think I must take you away.”

“Uncle John, it is not agitation. I was not agitated to-night; I was quite at ease, thinking about—oh, thinking about very different things; I am ashamed of myself when I remember how little I was thinking. Russell is right, and I was to blame.”

“My dear, I believe there is a safeguard against bodily ailments in that condition. We must look after her better again.”

“But she has seen mamma, Uncle John!”

“Rosalind, you are so full of sense—”

“What has sense to do with it?” she cried. “Do you think the child came back by herself? And yet there was no one with her—no one. Who else could have led her back? Mamma took away her hand and she awoke. Uncle John, none of you can find her; but if she is not dead—and you say she is not dead—my mother must be here.”

Jane had dropped upon her knees, and was keeping down by force, with her face pressed against her mistress’s dress, her sobs and tears. But Mrs. Trevanion clung to her tree and listened and made no sound. There was a smile upon her face of pleasure that was heartrending, more pitiful than pain.

“My dear Rosalind,” said John, in great distress, “my dearest girl! I have told you she is not dead. And if she is here we shall find her. We are certain to find her. Rosalind, if she were here, what would she say to you? Not to agitate and excite yourself, to try to be calm, to wait. My dear,” he said, with a tremble in his voice, “your mother would never wish to disturb your life; she would like you to be—happy; she would like you—you know—your mother—”

It appeared that he became incoherent, and could say no more.

The house was closed again and all quiet before Jane, who had been in despair, could lead Mrs. Trevanion away. She yielded at length from weakness; but she did not hear what her faithful servant said to her. Her mind had fallen, or rather risen, into a state of semi-conscious exaltation, like the ecstasy of an ascetic, as her delicate and fragile form grew numb and powerless in the damp and cold.

“Did you think any one could stand and hear all that and never make a sign?” she said. “Did you see her face, Jane? It was like an angel’s. I think that must be her window with the light in it. And he said her mother— John was always my friend. He said her mother— Where do you want me to go? I should like to stay in the porch and die there comfortably, Jane. It would be sweet; and then there could be no more quarrelling or questions, or putting any one to the test. No test! no test! But dying there would be so easy. And Sophy Lennox would never forbid it. She would take me in, and lay me on her bed, and bury me—like a good woman. I am not unworthy of it. I am not a bad woman, Jane.”

“Oh, Madam,” Jane cried, distracted, “do you know the carriage is waiting all this time? And the people of the hotel will be frightened. Come back, for goodness sake, come back!”

“The carriage,” she said, with a wondering air. “Is it the Highcourt carriage, and are we going home?”