Mrs. Pilton turned and went away across the grass, her footsteps making no sound, her face as inscrutable as ever. It was no shock to her to hear that Hilary, proxy-child of her barren heart, was dead. For several days, now, she had been schooling herself to the knowledge, so mysteriously come by in the Mendip dusk, that the strong, slender body she had watched emerge from childhood was in a rocky grave somewhere on the Frontier. Her anxiety now was all for the eager, restless spirit of him that had come home, and for the girl-child Sabrina who was somehow involved in his unfinished destiny. She was thinking as she reached the kitchen doorway and met Jennie returning with the extra cup, that it was a great pity that the news of his death had had to come like that to Sabrina, who had adopted him as a friend. She was wondering if it would frighten the child to know, as she herself knew, that he was here, in the house — but how could one speak of such a thing anyway, out loud, one could be burned as a witch in the old days for such an utterance. She wished that there was anything one could do or say to comfort Sabrina in this new loneliness.

“Do sit down, Mr. Shenstone,” Aunt Effie urged him helplessly, herself collapsing into the chair nearest the tea-pot. “Sabrina, darling, you’ll feel better when you’ve had a cup of tea—”

“Please, Auntie, will you excuse me—” gasped Sabrina, and George noticed that the kid really was looking ill.

“But I’m just going to pour out, and here’s Jennie with the extra cup, and see, there’s such a lovely cake—” Aunt Effie was gazing up at her anxiously, the tea-pot poised.

“I—really don’t want any tea—” Sabrina walked away blindly towards the house, praying not to cry before she reached it, breaking into a stumbling run when she had got as far as the drive.

“Oh, dear, perhaps if I could have broken it to her somehow—” said Aunt Effie, looking after her. “I’m afraid I must explain, Mr. Shenstone, that my niece has—has formed a childish attachment. She found her way into your brother’s room without my knowing, and begged to be allowed to read the books he had there. Mrs. Pilton thought your mother wouldn’t mind, so long as nothing was disturbed—”

“No, no, of course not—but what a rum idea,” said George, looking bewildered.