"Lord Coombe remembers everything," she said very slowly at last, "—everything. He remembers."
"He always did remember," said Dowie watching her. "That's it."
"I did not know—at first," Robin said as slowly as before. "I do—now."
In the evening she sat long before the fire and Dowie, sewing near her, looked askance now and then at her white face with the lost eyes. It was Dowie's own thought that they were "lost." She had never before seen anything like them. She could not help glancing sideways at them as they gazed into the red glow of the coal. What was her mind dwelling on? Was she thinking of words to say? Would she begin to feel that they were far enough from all the world—remote and all alone enough for words not to be sounds too terrible to hear even as they were spoken?
"Oh! dear Lord," Dowie prayed, "help her to ease her poor, timid young heart that's so crushed with cruel weight."
"You must go to bed early, my dear," she said at length. "But why don't you get a book and read?"
The lost eyes left the fire and met hers.
"I want to talk," Robin said. "I want to ask you things."
"I'll tell you anything you want to know," answered Dowie. "You're only a child and you need an older woman to talk to."