rd which smelled
a little of mice. When he reappeared the trunks were reopened, and a
powerful scent of dried rose-leaves would escape. For, recognizing the
mortality of things human, she procured every summer from her sister, the
wife of a market gardener, a consignment of this commodity, which she
passionately sewed up in bags, and continued to deposit year by year, in
Courtier's trunks.

This, and the way she made his toast--very crisp--and aired his
linen--very dry, were practically the only things she could do for a man
naturally inclined to independence, and accustomed from his manner of
life to fend for himself.

At first signs of his departure she would go into some closet or other,
away from the plumber and the two marks of his affection, and cry
quietly; but never in Courtier's presence did she dream of manifesting
grief--as soon weep in the presence of death or birth, or any other
fundamental tragedy or joy. In face of the realities of life she had
known from her youth up the value of the simple verb 'sto--stare-to stand
fast.'

And to her Courtier was a reality, the chief reality of life, the focus
of her aspiration, the morning and the evening star.

The request, then five days after his farewell visit to Mrs. Noel--for
the elephant-hide trunk which accompanied his rovings, produced her
habitual period of seclusion, followed by her habitual appearance in his
sitting-room bearing a note, and some bags of dried rose--leaves on a
tray. She found him in his shirt sleeves, packing.

"Well, Mrs. Benton; off again!"

Mrs. Benton, plaiting her hands, for she had not yet lost something of
the look and manner of a little girl, answered in her flat, but serene
voice:

"Yes, sir; and I hope you're not going anywhere very dangerous this time.
I always think you go to such dangerous places."

"To Persia, Mrs. Benton, where the carpets come from."

"Oh! yes, sir. Your washing's just come home."

Her, apparently cast-down, eyes stored up a wealth of little details; the
way his hair grew, the set of his back, the colour of his braces. But
suddenly she said in a surprising voice:

"You haven't a photograph you could spare, sir, to leave behind? Mr.
Benton was only saying to me yesterday, we've nothing to remember him by,
in case he shouldn't come back."

"Here's an old one."

Mrs. Benton took the photograph.

"Oh!" she said; "you can see who it is." And holding it perhaps too
tightly, for her fingers