Miss Castlemaine sat in the parlour at the Grey Nunnery, the little Marie on her knee. Since she knew who this child was--a Mary Ursula, like herself, and a Castlemaine--a new interest had arisen for her in her heart. She was holding the little one to her, looking into her face, and tracing the resemblance to the family. A great resemblance there undoubtedly was: the features were the clearly-cut Castlemaine features, the eyes were the same dark lustrous eyes; and Mary most wondered that the resemblance had never previously struck her.
Once more Mary had put aside the simple grey dress of the Sisterhood for robes of mourning: flowing robes, they were, of silk and crape, worn for poor Harry. The cap was on her head still, shading her soft brown hair.
It was the week subsequent to the funeral. On the following day Madame Guise (as well retain the name to the last) was about to return to her own land with her child, escorted thither by George Castlemaine. It was not to be a perpetual separation, for Charlotte had faithfully promised to come over at least once in three years to stay with George and Ethel at Greylands' Rest, so as to give her child the privilege of keeping up relations with the Castlemaine family. A slab was to be placed in the church to the memory of Anthony, and that, Madame Guise said, would of itself bring her. She must afford herself the mournful satisfaction of reading it from time to time. After her departure Mary Ursula was to go to Greylands' Rest on a short farewell visit to her uncle. It would be Christmastide, and she would spend the Christmas there. Mr. and Mrs. Castlemaine were losing no time in their departure from Greylands' Rest; they would be gone, with Ethel and Flora, before the new year came in. Mr. Castlemaine would not stay in it to see the dawning of another year: the last one, he said, had been too ill-fated. George would return as soon as might be to take up his abode there--but travelling on the Continent was somewhat uncertain at that season. During the winter Mr. and Mrs. Castlemaine would remain in London; and in the spring George was to go up there for his marriage, and bring Ethel home.
"Marie must not forget her English," said Mary Ursula, pressing a kiss on the child's face.
"Marie not fordet it, lady."
"And Marie is to come sometimes and see her dear old friends here; mamma says so; and Uncle George will----"
"A gentleman to see you, madam."
Little Sister Phoeby had opened the parlour door with the announcement, and was showing the visitor in. Mary thought it must be Mr. Knivett, and wondered that she had not heard the gate-bell. The fact was, Sister Phoeby had had the front door open, to let out the school children.
It was not Mr. Knivett who entered, but a much younger man: one whom, of all the world, Mary would have least expected to see--Sir William Blake-Gordon. He came forward, holding out his hand with trepidation, his utterly colourless face betraying his inward emotion. Mary rose, putting down the child, and mechanically suffered her hand to meet his. Sister Phoeby beckoned out the little girl, and shut the door.
"Will you pardon my unauthorised intrusion?" he asked, putting his hat on the table and taking a chair near her. "I feared to write and ask permission to call, lest you should deny it to me."