osing that which lay firmly wedged at
the bottom. What she had expected to find she did not know. What she
did find astonished her beyond all things. It was a beautifully
chiselled white marble tombstone in the shape of a cross. The whole of
the inscription was clear of dust or any covering save one fading
yellow rose. Awed, deeply touched, and feeling herself upon the verge
of a mysterious revelation, Christine lifted Roddy's yellow rose and
read the simple gold-lettered inscription:

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED WIFE,
CLARICE VAN CANNAN
(BORN QUENTIN),
WHO DIED AT EAST LONDON, JUNE 7, 19--, AND WAS
BROUGHT BACK TO REST NEAR HER SORROWING
HUSBAND AND CHILDREN.
(AGED 27)

The date of death was two years old.

Much that had been dark became clear to Christine. She understood at
last. The woman whose sad fate was here recorded, cut off at
twenty-seven--that fairest period in a happy woman's life--was Roddy's
mother, the mother of all the little van Cannan children, living and
dead. The woman who had ousted her memory from all hearts save loving,
loyal Roddy's was the second wife and stepmother.

Much in the attitude of the big, blond, laughing woman who reigned now
at Blue Aloes, false to her husband, careless of the fate of his
children, was accounted for, too. The sorrows of the van Cannans had
never touched her. How should they? Had not Christine heard from her
own lips, the night before, the confession of her love for another, and
her hatred of Bernard van Cannan's home. How, then, should she love
Bernard van Cannan's children?

The cruel taunt of cowardice she had flung at Roddy was explained. The
boy's sensitive, loyal nature was a book too deep for her reading, the
memory of his loved ones too sweet and tenacious for her to tamper
with. Nevertheless, she had understood him well enough to set a bond
on his honour never to speak of the dead woman who slept in the
unmarked grave while her tombstone lay in the rubble of an outhouse.
The spell by which she had won the man to forgetfulness and neglect was
not the same as that by which she had induced silence in the boy. A
promise had been wrung from him--perhaps even under duress! Suddenly,
terror swept over Christine Chaine. It was revealed to her, as in a
vision, that the pink-and-white woman who laughed with such childlike
innocence by day and whispered so passionately to her lover by night
could be capable of many things not