“Why—­Maggie!” he said.

Epilogue

“The worst of it all is,” said Maggie, four months later, to a very patient female friend who adored her, and was her confidante just then—­“the worst of it is that I’m not in the least sure of what it is that I believe even now.”

“Tell me, dear,” said the girl.

* * * * *

The two were sitting out in a delightfully contrived retreat cut out at the lower end of the double hedge.  Above them and on two sides rose masses of August greenery, hazel and beech, as close as the roof and walls of a summer-house:  the long path ran in green gloom up to the old brick steps beneath the yews:  and before the two girls rested the pleasant apparatus of tea—­silver, china and damask, all the more delightful from its barbaric contrast with its surroundings.

Maggie looked marvelously well, considering the nervous strain that had come upon her about Easter-time.  She had collapsed altogether, it seemed, in Easter week itself, and had been for a long rest—­one at her own dear French convent until a week ago, being entirely forbidden by the nuns to speak of her experiences at all, so soon as they had heard the rough outline.  Mrs. Baxter had spent the time in rather melancholy travel on the Continent, and was coming back this evening.

“It seems to me now exactly like a very bad dream,” said Maggie pensively, beginning to measure in the tea with a small silver scoop.  “Oh!  Mabel; may I tell you exactly what is in my mind:  and then we won’t talk of it any more at all?”

“Oh! do,” said the girl, with a little comfortable movement.

When the tea had been poured out and the plates set ready to hand, Maggie began.

* * * * *

“It seems perfectly dreadful of me to have any doubts at all, after all this; but ... but you don’t know how queer it seems.  There’s a kind of thick hedge—­” she waved a hand illustratively to the hazels beside her—­“a kind of thick hedge between me and Easter—­I suppose it’s the illness:  the nuns tell me so.  Well, it’s like that.  I can see myself, and Laurie, and Mr. Cathcart, and all the rest of them, like figures moving beyond; and they all seem to me to be behaving rather madly, as if they saw something that I can’t see....  Oh! it’s hopeless....

“Well, the first theory I have is that these little figures, myself included, really see something that I can’t now:  that there really was something or somebody, which makes them dance about like that. (Yes:  that’s not grammar; but you understand, don’t you?) Well, I’ll come back to that presently.