The maid, embarrassed, held hard to the half-open door
and shifted from foot to foot uneasily. 'I don't know!' she said at last. 'Only Sister Ruth, I suppose!' It was
manifest that the matter had never afforded her anything in the nature of
a problem. There was an embarrassing silence. Stephen did not wish to
seem, or even to be, prying; but her curiosity was aroused. What manner
of woman was this who lived so manifestly alone, and who had but a
Christian name! Stephen, however, had all her life been accustomed to
dominance, and at Normanstand and Norwood had made many acquaintances
amongst her poorer neighbours. She was just about to ask if she might
see Sister Ruth, when behind the maid in the dark of the low passage-way
appeared the tall, slim figure of a silver woman. Truly a silver woman! The first flash of Stephen's thought was correct. White-haired, white-
faced, white-capped, white-kerchiefed; in a plain-cut dress of light-grey
silk, without adornment of any kind. The whole ensemble was as a piece
of old silver. The lines of her face were very dignified, very sweet,
very beautiful. Stephen felt at once that she was in the presence of no
common woman. She looked an admiration which all her Quaker garments
could not forbid the other to feel. She was not the first to speak; in
such a noble presence the dignity of Stephen's youth imperatively
demanded silence, if not humility. So she waited. The Silver Lady, for
so Stephen ever after held her in her mind, said quietly, but with
manifest welcome:

'Didst thou wish to see me? Wilt thou come in?' Stephen answered
frankly:

'I should like to come in; if you will not think me rude. The fact is, I
was struck when riding by with the beautiful situation of the mill. I
thought it was only an old mill till I saw the garden hedges; and I came
round to ask if I might go in.' The  Silver Lady came forward at a pace
that by itself expressed warmth as she said heartily:

'Indeed thou mayest. Stay! it is tea-time. Let us put thy horse in one
of the sheds; there is no man here at present to do it. Then thou shalt
come with me and see my beautiful view!' She was about to take the horse
herself, but Stephen forestalled her with a quick: 'No, no! pray let me. I am quite accustomed.' She led the horse to a shed, and having looped
the rein over a hook, patted him and ran back. The Silver Lady gave her
a hand, and they entered the dark passage together. Stephen was thinking if she ought to begin by telling her name. But the
Haroun al Raschid feeling for adventure incognito is an innate principle
of the sons of men. It was seldom indeed that her life had afforded her
such an opportunity. The Silver Lady on her own part also wished for silence, as she looked
for the effect on her companion when the glory of the view should break
upon her. When they had climbed the winding stone stair, which led up
some twenty feet, there was a low wide landing with the remains of the
main shaft of the mill machinery running through it. From one side rose
a stone stair curving with the outer wall of the mill tower and guarded
by a heavy iron rail. A dozen steps there were, and then a landing a
couple of yards square; then a deep doorway cut in the thickness of the
wall, round which the winding stair continued. The Silver Lady, who had led the way, threw open the door, and motioned
to her guest to enter. Stephen stood for a few moments, surprised as
well as delighted, for the room before her as not like anything which she
had ever seen or thought of. It was a section of almost the whole tower, and was of considerable size,
for the machinery and even the inner shaft had been removed. East and
south and west the wall had been partially cut away so that great wide
windows nearly the full height of the room showed the magnificent
panorama. In the depths of the ample windows were little cloistered
nooks where one might with a feeling of super-solitude be away from and
above the world. The room was beautifully furnished and everywhere were flowers, with
leaves and sprays and branches where possible. Even from where she stood in the doorway Stephen had a bird's-eye view of
the whole countryside; not only of the coast, with which she was already
familiar, and on which her windows at the Castle looked, but to the south
and west, which the hill rising steep behind the castle and to southward
shut out. The Silver Lady could not but notice her guest's genuine admiration. 'Thou likest my room and my view. There is no use asking thee, I see
thou dost!' Stephen answered with a little gasp. 'I think it is the quaintest and most beautiful place I have ever seen!' 'I am so glad thou likest it. I have lived here for nearly forty years;
and they have been years of unutterable peace and earthly happiness! And
now, thou wilt have some tea!' Stephen left the mill that afternoon with a warmth of heart that she had
been a stranger to for many a day. The two women had accepted each other
simply. 'I am called Ruth,' said the Silver Lady. 'And I am Stephen,'
said the Countess de Lannoy in reply. And that was all; neither had any
clue to the other's identity. Stephen felt that some story lay behind
that calm, sweet personality; much sorrow goes to the making of fearless
quietude. The Quaker lady moved so little out of her own environment
that she did not even suspect the identity of her visitor. All that she
knew of change was a notice from the solicitor to the estate that, as the
headship had lapsed into another branch of the possessing family, she
must be prepared, if necessary, to vacate her tenancy, which was one 'at
will.' It was not long before Stephen availed herself of the permission to come
again. This time she made up her mind to tell who she was, lest the
concealment of her identity might lead to awkwardness. At that meeting
friendship became union. The natures of the two women expanded to each other; and after a very few
meetings there was established between them a rare confidence. Even the
personal austerity of Quakerdom, or the state and estate of the peeress,
could not come between. Their friendship seemed to be for the life of
one. To the other it would be a memory. The Silver Lady never left the chosen routine of her own life. Whatever
was the reason of her giving up the world, she kept it to herself; and
Stephen respected her reticence as much as she did her confidence. It had become a habit, early in their friendship, for Stephen to ride or
walk over to the windmill in the dusk of the evening when she felt
especially lonely. On one such occasion she pushed open the outer door,
which was never shut, and took her way up the stone stair. She knew she
would find her friend seated in the window with hands folded on lap,
looking out into the silent dusk with that absorbed understanding of
things which is holier than reverence, and spiritually more active than
conscious prayer. She tapped the door lightly, and stepped into the room.