all devils, it begins by flattering her--_when she's young_. Then
suddenly, one day, after long years of cunning flattery--suddenly--like
that!..." She snapped her fingers in his still more surprised face....
"Like that!--the hateful thing tells her the truth--that she _is growing
old_! Oh, just a shadow here--a line there--the first grey hair----
Nothing _really_--only--from that day, on and on and on relentlessly,
the message, the odious message never stops! Oh, if anything ought to be
buried with a woman, like her wedding ring, it ought to be her
hand-glass--for it's been just as much a part of joy and pain as the
ring has!"

She stopped, out of breath, and her husband, rather subdued yet trying
to make light of it, hugged her and said: "Seems to me, Sophy oughtn't
to claim all the laurels. Seems to me you're a right elegant little
poetess yourself!"

Charlotte extricated herself from this frankly marital embrace, and
pushing the curls out of her eyes went on, too excited and in earnest to
heed this funny little compliment.

"_That's_ what I see for Sophy!" she said. "The tragedy of the
hand-glass--the tragedy of love in her case. For that boy can't love her
soul and mind as he ought to--and what soul he's got she's given
him--for the time being. He's just a walking mirror--a reflection of
her. Sophy doesn't dream it--nor he--of course. But I can see it. Love
does that sometimes. Oh, you needn't grin, Joe!--I watch life though I
_do_ live in the country the year round. Sophy's just a woman Narcissus.
She's in love with her own reflection in Morris Loring. And some day
she'll want to draw him from that dream-pool. Then she'll find empty
wetness in her hands ... just tears...."

She broke off almost in tears herself. Suddenly she caught her husband's
head to her breast:

"Oh," she cried, "I do thank God that you are bald, Joe, and sixteen
years older than I am!"

"Lord love us!" exclaimed the Judge, bursting into inextinguishable
mirth this time, "I reckon that's the funniest prayer of thanksgiving
that ever went up to the Throne of Grace!"

XII

In the verandah of her cottage at Nahant, where she always passed the
months of May and June, Mrs. Loring, Morris's mother, sat re-reading the
letter in which he told her of his engagement to Mrs. Chesney.

There had been a storm the night before, and the sea made a marvellous,
heroic music among the rocks. Mrs. Loring laid the open letter on her
knee, and