He is evidently a man of
kind heart; perhaps he will not mind coming to see a lonely woman who is
no longer young. There is much I should like to ask him of that land of
which nothing was known in my own youth. Perhaps he will not mind seeing
me alone.' Stephen's heart beat furiously. She felt suffocating with
new hope, for what could be but good from Harold's meeting with that
sweet woman who had already brought so much comfort into her own life? She was abashed, and yet radiant; she seemed to tread on air as she stood
beside her friend saying farewell. She did not wish to speak. So the
two women kissed and parted. It had been arranged that two days hence the Stonehouse party were to
spend the day at Lannoy, coming before lunch and staying the night, as
they wanted in the afternoon to return a visit at some distance to the
north of Lannoy. Harold was to ride over with them. When the Varilands party arrived, Stephen told them of Sister Ruth's wish
to see Harold. Pearl at once proffered a request that she also should be
taken at some other time to see the Silver Lady. Harold acquiesced
heartily; and it was agreed that some time in the late afternoon he
should pay the visit. Stephen would bring him. Strangely enough, she felt no awkwardness, no trepidation, as they rode
up the steep road to the Mill. When the introduction had been effected, and half an hour had been
consumed in conventional small talk, Stephen, obedience to a look from
the Silver Lady, rose. She said in they most natural way she could:

'Now Sister Ruth, I will leave you two alone, if you do not mind. Harold
can tell you all you want to know about Alaska; and perhaps, if you are
very good, he will tell some of his adventures! Good afternoon, dear. I
wish you were to be with us to-night; but I know your rule. I go for my
ride. Sultan has had no exercise for five days; and he looked at me
quite reproachfully when we met this morning. Au revoir, Harold. We
shall meet at dinner!' When she had gone Harold came back from the door, and stood in the window
looking east. The Silver Lady came and stood beside him. She did not
seem to notice his face, but in the mysterious way of women she watched
him keenly. She wished to satisfy her own mind before she undertook her
self-appointed task. Her eyes were turned towards the headland towards which Stephen on her
white Arab was galloping at breakneck speed. He was too good a horseman
himself, and he knew her prowess on horseback too well to have any
anxiety regarding such a rider at Stephen. It was not fear, then, that
made his face so white, and his eyes to have such an illimitable sadness. The Silver Lady made up her mind. All her instincts were to trust him. She recognised a noble nature, with which truth would be her surest
force. 'Come,' she said, 'sit here, friend; where another friend has often sat
with me. From this you can see all the coastline, and all that thou
wilt!' Harold put a chair beside the one she pointed out; and when she
was seated he sat also. She began at once with a desperate courage:

'I have wanted much to see thee. I have heard much of thee, before thy
coming.' There was something in the tone of her voice which arrested his
attention, and he looked keenly at her. Here, in the full light, her
face looked sadly white and he noticed that her lips trembled. He said
with all the kindliness of his nature, for from the first moment he had
seen her he had taken to her, her purity and earnestness and sweetness
appealing to some aspiration within him:

'You are pale! I fear you are not well! May I call your maid? Can I do
anything for you?' She waved her hand gently:

'Nay! It is nothing. It is but the result of a sleepless night and much
thought.' 'Oh! I wish I had known! I could have put off my visit; and I could
have come any other time to suit you.' She smiled gently:

'I fear that would have availed but little. It was of thy coming that I
was concerned.' Seeing his look of amazement, she went on quickly, her
voice becoming more steady as she lost sight of herself in her task:

'Be patient a little with me. I am an old woman; and until recently it
has been many and many years since the calm which I sought here has been
ruffled. I had come to believe that for me earthly troubles were no
more. But there has come into my life a new concern. I have heard so
much of thee, and before thy coming.' The recurrence of the phrase
struck him. He would have asked how such could be, but he deemed it
better to wait. She went on:

'I have been wishful to ask thy advice. But why should not I tell thee
outright that which troubles me? I am not used, at least for these many
years, to dissemble. I can but trust thee in all; and lean on thy man's
mercy to understand, and to aid me!' 'I shall do all in my power, believe me!' said Harold simply. 'Speak
freely!' She pointed out of the window, where Stephen's white horse
seemed on the mighty sweep of green sward like a little dot. 'It is of her that I would speak to thee!' Harold's heart began to beat
hard; he felt that something was coming. The Silver Lady went on:

'Why thinkest thou that she rideth at such speed? It is her habit!' He
waited. She continued:

'Doth it not seem to thee that such reckless movement is the result of
much trouble; that she seeketh forgetfulness?' He knew that she was
speaking truly; and somehow the conviction was borne upon him that she
knew his secret heart, and was appealing to it. If it was about Stephen! If her disquiet was about her; then God bless her! He would be patient
and grateful. The Quaker's voice seemed to come through his thought, as
though she had continued speaking whilst he had paused:

'We have all our own secrets. I have had mine; and I doubt not that thou
hast had, may still have, thine own. Stephen hath hers! May I speak to
thee of her?' 'I shall be proud! Oh! madam, I thank you with all my heart for your
sweet kindness to her. I cannot say what I feel; for she has always been
very dear to me!' In the pause before she spoke again the beating of his
own heart seemed to re-echo the quick sounds of Stephen's galloping
horse. He was surprised at the method of her speech when it did come;
for she forgot her Quaker idiom, and spoke in the phrasing of her youth:

'Do you love her still?' 'With all my soul! More than ever!' 'Then, God be thanked; for it is in your power to do much good. To
rescue a poor, human, grieving soul from despair!' Her words conveyed
joy greater than she knew. Harold did not himself know why the air
seemed filled with sounds that seemed to answer every doubt of his life. He felt, understood, with that understanding which is quicker than
thought. The Silver Lady went on now with a rush:

'See, I have trusted you indeed! I have given away another woman's
secret; but I do it without fear.