Janet, entering the library at six in the morning, found Mr. Cleland about ready to retire to bed after an all-night vigil.
"What do you think of what I've done—bringing this child here?" he demanded bluntly, having lacked the courage to ask Janet's opinion before.
Janet could neither read nor write. Her thoughts were slow in crystallizing. For a few moments master and ancient servant stood confronted there in the dusk of early morning.
"Maybe it was God's will, sor," she said at last, in her voice which age had made a little rickety.
"You don't approve?"
"Ah, then Mr. Cleland, sor, was there annything you was wishful for but the dear Missis approved?"
That answer took him entirely by surprise. He had never even thought of looking at the matter from such an angle.
And after Janet went away into the dim depths of the house, he remained standing there, pondering the old Irishwoman's answer.
Suddenly his heart grew full and the tears were salt in his throat—hot and wet in his closed eyes.
"Not that memory and love are lessened, dear," he explained with tremulous, voiceless lips, "—but you have been away so long, and here on earth time moves slowly without you—dearest—dearest——"