, "the line was there. You would not
know what it is like unless there had been a line between you and the
one you loved."

"There was," she answered, hoarsely, then her eyes met his.

"You, too?" he asked, unbelieving, but she could not speak. She
only bowed her head in assent. Then his hand grasped hers in full
understanding. The false line divided them, also, but in one thing,
at least, they were kindred.

"I wish," said the Doctor, after a little, "that we could hide her away
before to-morrow. The people she has held herself apart from all her
life will come and look at her now that she is helpless."

"That is the irony of it," returned Margaret. "I have even prayed to
outlive those I hated, so that they could not come and look at me when I
was dead."

"Have you outlived them?"

"Yes," answered Margaret, thickly, "every one."

"You hated someone who drew the false line?"

"Yes."

"And that person is dead?"

"Yes."

"Then," said the Doctor, very gently, "when you have forgiven, the line
will be blotted out. The one on the other side of it may be out of your
reach forever, but the line will be gone."

The idea was new to her, that she must forgive. She thought of it long
afterward, when the house was as quiet as its sleeping mistress, and the
pale stars faded to pearl at the hour of dawn.

The third day came; the end of that pitiful period in which we wait,
blindly hoping that the miracle of resurrection may be given once more,
and the stone be rolled away from our dead.

It was Doctor Brinkerhoff who had the casket closed before the strangers
came, and afterward he told Margaret. "She would be thankful," Margaret
assured him, and his eyes filled. "Yes," he answered, huskily, "I
believe she would."

They sat together at the head of the stairs, out of sight, and yet
within hearing. Lynn sat at one end, still perplexed, and shuddering at
the unpleasantness of it all. His mother's hand was in his, and with
her left arm she supported Iris, who leaned heavily against her
shoulder, broken-hearted. On the other side of Iris was Doctor
Brinkerhoff, austere and alone.

From below came the wonderful words of the burial service: "I am the
resurrection and the life. He that believeth in me, though he were dead,
yet shall he live." It was followed by a beautiful tribute to Aunt
Peace--to the countless good deeds of her five and seventy years.

Then there was silence, broken by the muffled sound of a string b