“For what?” said Heliet.
“For the only thing any one can do for me—for feeling with me.”
After supper Clarice went up to her own rooms; but Heliet returned to the hall where Rosie lay. To her astonishment, she found a sudden and touching change in the surroundings of the dead child. Rosie lay now wreathed round in white rosebuds, tastefully disposed, as by a hand which had grudged neither love nor labour.
“Who has done this?” Heliet spoke aloud in he surprise.
“I have,” said a voice beside her. It was no voice which Heliet knew. She looked up into the face of a tall man, with dark hair and beard, and eyes which were at once sad and compassionate.
“You! Who are you?” asked Heliet in the same tone.
“You may not know my name. I am—Piers Ingham.”
“Then I do know,” replied Heliet, gravely. “But, Sir Piers, she must not know.”
“Certainly not,” he said, quietly. “Tell her nothing; let her think, if she will, that the angels did it. And—tell me nothing. Farewell.”
He stooped down and kissed the cold white brow of the dead child.