"How terrible!" the visitor murmured, shutting her eyes. "Wasn't your dear mother sad when it grew that colour?"
"No," said William, coldly, "she likes this colour."
"That's so like her," said the lady tenderly, "to pretend to you that she likes it."
William began to dislike the lady. He waited for her to continue the conversation.
"Somehow you're quite different in every way from what I expected," she went on, with a distinct note of regret in her voice which William felt to be far from flattering. "You're taller and stouter, and your expression ... yes, that's QUITE different."
"Yes," said William, still anxious to carry out his part of the bargain. "I've changed a lot since I had those pictures took. Got a bit older, you know, an' had some awful illnesses."
"Really," said the lady, in sympathy. "Your dear mother never told me in her letters."
"She never knew," said William. "I never told her, so as not to worry her. I jus' went about as usual, an' she never knew. But it made me look different afterwards."
"It would," said the lady, with a bewildered air. "Well, shall we go in to your dear mother? She expects me, I believe. My name is Miss Rubina Strange."
"Oh," said William, "she's ill. She said I was to tell you. She can't see you. She's very ill."
"Ill? I am so sorry. But I would like to go to her. Perhaps I could do something for her."
"No you can't," said William, "no one can. It's too late."
"Yes--he says it's too late to do anything."
"Yes, she's dyin' all right," said William.
"But can't anything be done? This is dreadful! I feel absolutely heart-broken. I must just come into the house. There's surely something I can do!"
William followed her into the house. Mr. Monkton Graham had not expected this. He was standing by the window of his study waiting till Miss Rubina Strange should depart. When he saw her about to enter the room, he did the only possible thing. He disappeared.
Miss Rubina Strange looked round the room with the air of a pilgrim visiting a holy place.
"And is this, dear Peter," she said in a hushed whisper, "where she writes those wonderful words?"
"Oh, my dear! To think that I see it with my poor unworthy eyes. I have imagined it so often!"
Then she raised her long, thin nose, and sniffed.