, were beautiful no
longer, now that their day of tender freshness was so inappropriately
prolonged. As Agatha, with mind aloof, wondered vaguely at the
laborious patience exhibited in the work, her eye caught sight of an
inscription molded in the wax pedestal: "Brother." Her mind was
sharply brought back from the impersonal region of speculation. What
she saw was not merely a sentimental, misguided attempt at art; it was
Susan Stoddard's memorial of her brother, Hercules Thayer--the man who
had so unexpectedly influenced Agatha's own life. To Susan Stoddard
this wax cross was the symbol of the companionship of childhood, and of
all the sweet and bitter involved in the inexplicable bond of blood
relationship. Agatha felt more kindly toward her because of this mute,
fantastic memorial. She looked up almost with her characteristic
friendly smile as she heard slow, steady steps coming down the hall.

The eyes that returned Agatha's look were not smiling, though they did
not look unkind. They gazed, without embarrassment, as without pride,
into Agatha's face, as if they would probe at once to the covered
springs of action. Mrs. Stoddard was a thick-set woman, rather short,
looking toward sixty, with iron-gray hair parted in the middle and
drawn back in an old-fashioned, pretty way.

It was to the credit of Mrs. Stoddard's breeding that she took no
notice of Agatha's peculiar dress, unsuited as it was to any place but
the bedroom, even in the morning. Mrs. Stoddard herself was neat as a
pin in a cotton gown made for utility, not beauty. She stood for an
instant with her clear, untroubled gaze full upon Agatha, then drew
forward a chair from its mathematical position against the wall. When
she spoke, her voice was a surprise, it was so low and deep, with a
resonance like that of the 'cello. It was not the voice of a young
woman; it was, rather, a rare gift of age, telling how beautiful an old
woman's speech could be. Moreover, it carried refinement of birth and
culture, a beauty of phrase and enunciation, which would have marked
her with distinction anywhere.

"How do you do, Miss Redmond?"

Agatha, standing by the table with the cross, made no movement toward
the chair. She was not come face to face with Mrs. Stoddard for the
purpose of social visitation, but because, in the warfare of life, she
had been sent to the enemy with a message. That, at least, was
Agatha's point of view. Officially, she was come