I looked at the blank spot through which she had passed. All the dis-ease of the dawn upstairs in that prolific speaking attic surged forward. I could not open or shut the past at will; no more could I answer the simple question, What is it that you wish? I watched Jonathan accompany Mama up the lawn, and when he caught sight of me watching from the verandah, he raised his hat jauntily.

All about me now, the House spoke. I had seen. I had lived and seen through the diary’s eyes another world, the world before my own, a world past the bourne of my own body. I could not rest or remain silent after all. My eyes were stolen, and I stood and watched this new beginning as if through Perdita’s eyes. For if Perdita had not died, would I have inherited this sight?

I descended the steps of the verandah, one by one, frozen and fleeing all at once, and Jonathan, with a happy pat upon Mama’s arm, broke from the others and walked briskly ahead, so he arrived at the bottom of the stairs just as I did.

“Maisie!” he exclaimed, stretching his hand out to take mine.

“Miss Grange is dead, Jonathan,” I answered quietly.

He stiffened, but the forward motion of his joy trundled over my incomprehensible reception. “I am sorry, dear,” he whispered. And then he turned round, for the others were just behind.

“Shall we row, Maisie?” Mama spoke out gaily, as if nothing had been said between us. “Mr. Hunnowell declares it is an admirable tide.”

“Mama?” I stared at her, a little dazed.

“A row, Miss Thomas!” Mr. Cutting joined in merrily. “Your tutor proclaims you have an admirable stroke; perhaps you can learn still more from mine.”

I blanched, and realized my hand was still in the strong grip of Jonathan Lanman. The world seemed to me to have dipped below sanity. And my heart no longer seemed to beat.

So it was that the four of us, Mama beaming with the success of her persuasion, proceeded down the lawn to the boathouse, bound for a morning row. Mr. Cutting got in first, and from his seat, he directed Mama and myself into the stern and then, after Jonathan had handed us down, instructed Jonathan to man the bow pair of oars and push off. To my surprise, Mr. Cutting proved a nimble oarsman, and he set the stroke for Jonathan, the long oars gliding above the surface of the water like low-flying birds, the men falling into an easy rhythm, shooting our boat forward into the wide harbor, busy at this hour with a mix of fishermen and other rusticators like ourselves.