Isabella nodded. "It was the sight of you recalled his memory?"
"Yes."
"And you have not undeceived him?"
"It was not possible to tell him of his mistake. He was too weak."
"Tell me some more, please."
And Philippa told her, beginning from the beginning. She told her of the doctor's plea—of Jane Goodman's words—of all the phases of his recent illness—only of his words of love to her she did not speak. And during the recital Isabella watched her with a look of deep scrutiny, but she did not interrupt. Only when the story was all told she said—
"I wonder why you did it?"
"There was nothing else to be done. You would have done the same yourself," replied Philippa simply.
"Yes," cried Isabella, with a little cry that was more than half a sob; "you are right. I should have done the same myself; but—I have loved Francis Heathcote all my life. I should have done the same; but I did not have the chance—did I? After all these years——
"Listen," she continued, as she leaned forward resting her chin on her clasped hand, while into her eyes there crept the look of one who is blind to what is actually before her, but entranced with some inward vision visible to herself alone. "Listen, and I will tell you what I can about that past which died so long ago and which is yet alive to-day. When I was a girl, scarcely more than a child, I came to live with an aunt in Bessacre village. My mother was dead, and my father, who was one of those delightful but utterly unpractical people that the world calls rolling stones, was seldom or never in England.