hevelled Hecuba-like woman whom she had found half an hour before.
"I am not at rest!" Mrs Transome said, with slow distinctness, moving from the mirror to the window, where the blind was not drawn down, and she could see the chill white landscape and the far-off unheeding stars.
Denner, more distressed by her mistress's suffering than she could have been by anything else, took up with the instinct of affection a gold vinaigrette which Mrs Transome often liked to carry with her, and going up to her put it into her hand gently. Mrs Transome grasped the little woman's hand hard, and held it so.
"Denner," she said, in a low tone, "if I could choose at this moment, I would choose that Harold should never have been born."
"Nay, my dear" (Denner had only once before in her life said "my dear" to her mistress), "it was a happiness to you then."
"I don't believe I felt the happiness then as I feel the misery now. It is foolish to say people can't feel much when they are getting old. Not pleasure, perhaps—little comes. But they can feel they are forsaken—why, every fibre in me seems to be a memory that makes a pang. They can feel
