she could never have lived there if she had not always remembered the old woman's forgiveness, that last hour of gentleness by her bedside, the reconciliation, in complete understanding and knowledge almost articulate, offered at the moment of departure for ever. . . . Then it seemed to her as if she heard the old woman's breaking voice speak softly to her and say:
"Forgive, even though he never forgives, for he will never forgive. . . . "
And it seemed to her as if she heard that voice, rustling with soft encouragement, in the wind, in the trees, now that she was passing through the garden, while the implacable house looked down upon her with that everlasting cold frown. It was a strange feeling which always sent a shudder through her for just two or three seconds every time that she went past the roses in their straw wrappings to the great front door, the feeling which had sent a shudder through her the very first time when she alighted from their carriage . . . after being disowned for years, as a disgrace, hidden away in a corner. . . . It was only for two or three seconds. The rain was now splashing down. She closed her umbrella as Truitje opened the door, with a glad laugh, that mevruow had got home before it absolutely poured; and now she was in the long hall. . . . Oh, what a gloomy hall it was, with the oak doors on either side, the Delft jugs on the antique cabinet; the engravings and family-portraits; and then, at the far end, the one door gloomier than the others, that door which led . . . simply to a small, inner staircase, for the servants, so that they should not constantly be using the main staircase. . . . But she had not known this until she moved in and, yielding to an impulse, ran to the sombre door which had always stared at her, from the far
