To the surprise of almost everyone Mr. Parfitt had found love. He had made so late in life a discovery; and it was one for which he died. Or so it was believed. The evidence was his will: Mr. Parfitt had bequeathed everything to Mrs. Seymour. Since there were no dependants, and only a few distant relations, the will was unlikely to be contested. Mrs. Seymour was now, with her combination of assets, a woman of some wealth.

This was wholly unforeseen. The cards had said nothing. They had let her down for the first time in all the years. Mrs. Seymour felt that her powers had ebbed. She no longer had use of them. They no longer had use of her.

The yacht was found was adrift some distance from any shore. It was Rebecca who located the body of Mr. Parfitt. She suggested they look where the girl had been found not long before. And she was right. So the murmur went round that Rebecca had inherited the gift.

Her pictures often showed a visionary quality. She did not see things in the customary way. Her reality was within.

Certainly after her ordeal in the wood she was changed — from moody and rebellious to quiet and confident. She became quite studious. Her manner was more conventional, although creative enough to guard against dullness. Rebecca was developing her style. Her walks by the shore were noted by all. Friends of old were friends no more. She preferred to commune with the Atlantic out there.

Sometimes Rebecca sketched or photographed. After a while there was an exhibition in a local gallery, one of the many that small coastal places attract. Rebecca, it was thought, had talent. Her pictures often showed a visionary quality. She did not see things in the customary way. Her reality was within. Isolated among her peers now, she was befriended by kindly, older people who were encouraging her to develop what she could see.

“I paint pictures,” Sarah said. “And, actually, some of them are very good.” But no one heard her in the attic room with its view to a wavering horizon. Sarah alone saw the men take the old-fashioned furniture out of Mrs. Seymour’s house. Some things went into enormous waste skip, including, Sarah noted approvingly, the wine-dark velvet curtains.

Rebecca’s parents had been seen looking over the house. There was much to be done to style it to their taste. What attracted them was the seascape. In their current house there was only woodland, “the disenchanted forest,” as Rebecca’s father privately had named it. And there was space in the attic for Rebecca to paint. A larger window would give more light, and a better view. In the end it was the sea that made the difference.