eld bade her guests good night. Iris lit
a candle and followed her up the broad, winding stairway. It made a
charming picture--the old lady in her trailing gown, the light throwing
her white hair into bold relief, and the girl behind her, smiling back
over the banister, and waving her hand in farewell.

In Lynn's fond sight, his mother was very lovely as she sat there, with
the firelight shining upon her face. He liked the way her dark hair grew
about her low forehead, her fair, smooth skin, and the mysterious depths
of her eyes. Ever since he could remember, she had worn a black gown,
with soft folds of white at the throat and wrists.

"It's time to go out for our walk now," he said.

"Not to-night, son. I'm tired."

"That doesn't make any difference; you must have exercise."

"I've had some, and besides, it's wet."

Lynn was already out of hearing, in search of her wraps. He put on her
rubbers, paying no heed to her protests, and almost before she knew it,
she was out in the April night, woman-like, finding a certain pleasure
in his quiet mastery.

The storm was over and the hidden moon silvered the edges of the clouds.
Here and there a timid planet looked out from behind its friendly
curtain, but only the pole star kept its beacon steadily burning. The
air was sweet with the freshness of the rain, and belated drops, falling
from the trees, made a faint patter upon the ground.

Down the long elm-bordered path they went, the boy eager to explore the
unfamiliar place; the mother, harked back to her girlhood, thrilled with
both pleasure and pain.

Happy are they who leave the scenes of early youth to the ministry of
Time. Going back, one finds the river a little brook, the long stretch
of woodland only a grove in the midst of a clearing, and the upland
pastures, that once seemed mountains, are naught but stony, barren
fields.

As they stood upon the bridge, looking down into the rushing waters,
Margaret remembered the lost majesty of that narrow stream, and sighed.
The child who had played so often upon its banks had grown to a woman,
rich with Life's deepest experiences, but the brook was still the same.
Through endless years it must be the same, drawing its waters from
unseen sources, while generation after generation withered away, like
the flowers that bloomed upon its grassy borders while the years were
young.

Lynn broke rudely into her thoughts. "I wish I'd known you when you were
a kid, mother," he