e a good woman, too, from now on, Judge Maxwell,
and I'm thankful to you for your kind words."

"We turn in here--this is my door," said the judge.

Mystified, wondering what the next development of this strange excursion
into the night would be, but satisfied in her mind that it meant no ill
for her now, Ollie waited while the judge found the keyhole, for which
he groped in the dark.

"And the matter of the will was all disposed of by the probate judge
today, I hear," said the judge, his hand on the door.

"Yes, sir."

"Then your life is all before you, to make of it what you will," said
he, placing his hand on her shoulder, as she stood with him in the dim
hall. He opened the study door. The wood on the grate was blazing
brightly. Ollie saw someone standing before it, bending slightly forward
in the pose of expectation. He was tall and of familiar figure, and the
firelight was playing in the tossed curls of his short, fair hair.

"In there," said the judge, "if you care to go."

Ollie did not stir. Her feet felt rooted to the floor in the wonder and
doubt of this strange occurrence.

"Ollie!" cried the man at the hearthstone, calling her name imploringly.
He came forward, holding out pleading hands.

She stood a moment, as if gathering herself to a resolution. A sob rose
in her throat, and broke from her lips transformed into a trembling,
sharp, glad cry. It was as if she had cast the clot of sorrow from her
heart. Then she passed into the room and met him.

Judge Maxwell closed the door.

CHAPTER XXIII

LEST I FORGET

Mrs. Newbolt was cutting splints for her new sun-bonnet out of a
pasteboard box. She hitched her chair back a little farther into the
shadow of the porch, for the impertinent sun was winking on her bright
scissors, dazzling her eyes.

It was past the turn of the afternoon; a soft wind was moving with
indolence among the tender leaves, sleepy from the scents of lilac and
apple bloom which it had drunk on its way. And now it loitered under the
eaves of the porch to mix honeysuckle with its stream of drowsy sweets,
like a chemist of Araby the Blest preparing a perfume for the harem's
pride.

There was the gleam of fresh paint on the walls of the old house. The
steps of the porch had been renewed with strong timber, the rotting
siding had been replaced. Mrs. Newbolt's chair no longer drew squeaks
and groans from the floor of the porch as she rocked, swaying gently as
her quick sh