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“Her great tragedy happened just three years ago,” said the child; “that would be
since your sister’s time.”

“Her tragedy?” asked Framton; somehow in this restful country spot tragedies seemed
out of place.

“You may wonder why we keep that window wide open on an October afternoon,”

said the niece, indicating a large French window that opened on to a lawn.
“It is quite warm for the time of the year,” said Framton; “but has that window got

anything to do with the tragedy?”

“Out through that window, three years ago to a day, her husband and her two
young brothers went off for their day’s shooting. They never came back. In crossing

the moor to their favourite snipe-shooting ground they were all three engulfed in
a treacherous piece of bog. It had been that dreadful wet summer, you know, and
places that were safe in other years gave way suddenly without warning. Their bodies
were never recovered. That was the dreadful part of it.” Here the child’s voice lost its

self-possessed note and became falteringly human. “Poor aunt always thinks that they
will come back someday, they and the little brown spaniel that was lost with them,
and walk in at that window just as they used to do. That is why the window is kept
open every evening till it is quite dusk. Poor dear aunt, she has often told me how

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