“Well, what do you expect if you smoke a pipe?” replied his sister.

“Papa,” asked Flora, putting down her work in alarm, “what do you mean?”

Dr Greysteel was staring at the mirror – the very same mirror which had so mysteriously appeared when day had turned to night and Strange had come to Padua. Flora went and stood behind his chair, so that she could see what he saw. Her exclamation of surprize brought Aunt Greysteel to join her.

Where Dr Greysteel’s head ought to have been in the mirror was a dark spot that moved and changed shape. The spot grew in size until gradually it began to resemble a figure fleeing down an immense corridor towards them. The figure drew closer, and they could see it was a woman. Several times she looked back as she ran, as if in fear of something behind her.

“What has frightened her to make her run like that?” wondered Aunt Greysteel. “Lancelot, can you see any thing? Does any one chase after her? Oh, poor lady! Lancelot, is there any thing you can do?”

Dr Greysteel went to the mirror, placed his hand upon it and pushed, but the surface was as hard and smooth as mirrors usually are. He hesitated for a moment, as though debating with himself whether to try a more violent approach.

“Be careful, papa!” cried Flora in alarm. “You must not break it!”

The woman within the mirror drew nearer. For a moment she appeared directly behind it and they could see the elaborate embroidery and beading of her gown; then she mounted up upon the frame as on a step. The surface of the mirror became softer, like a dense cloud or mist. Flora hastened to push a chair against the wall so that the lady might more easily descend. Three pairs of hands were raised to catch her, to pull her away from whatever it was that frightened her.

She was perhaps thirty or thirty-two years of age. She was dressed in a gown the colour of autumn, but she was breathless and a little disordered from running. With a frantic look she surveyed the unknown room, the unknown faces, the unfamiliar look of everything. “Is this Faerie?” she asked.

“No, madam,” answered Flora.

“Is it England?”

“No, madam.” Tears began to course down Flora’s face. She put her hand on her breast to steady herself. “This is Padua. In Italy. My name is Flora Greysteel. It is a name quite unknown to you, but I have waited for you here at your husband’s desire. I promised him I would meet you here.”

“Is Jonathan here?”

“No, madam.”

“You are Arabella Strange,” said Dr Greysteel in amazement.

“Yes,” she said.

“Oh, my dear!” exclaimed Aunt Greysteel, one hand flying to cover her mouth and the other to her heart. “Oh, my dear!” Then both hands fluttered around Arabella’s face and shoulders. “Oh, my dear!” she exclaimed for the third time. She burst into tears and embraced Arabella.