and as she stood there slim
and straight, the man came close and his arm slipped about her. For a
moment she seemed unconscious of his presence, then she turned and her
eyes looked steadfastly into his, and, as they looked, they smiled
through their mistiness.

"Thank God," she said in a low voice into which a tremor stole; "thank
God, you came to me and woke me up--in time."

After a little she spoke again hastily as though in fright.

"Dearest," she declared tensely, "as I stood here today a fear came over
me: a fear and a premonition. It seemed to me that every hill and every
tree was accusing us. Silent voices were calling out, 'Why did you go
away?'" She broke off, and then, as though from the strength of his
embrace, she drew reassurance, she went on: "Suppose it was all a
ghastly mistake? Suppose Hamilton's overvaulting ambition with all its
vast egotism should totter and fall? What would become of us in that
world down there? I have, since we left here, seen only one look of
serene and utterly calm peace on any face in our family. It was her
face--" The girl nodded toward the grave and shivered.

The man drew her closer.

"Loved faces in death always wear a peace that life does not know," he
told her. Then whimsically he smiled as he voiced a fantastic
suggestion:

"Maybe, dearest, there's some land beyond the stars where all the
mistakes we make here can be remedied ... where we can take up our
marred lives and live them afresh, as we have dreamed them. Perhaps in
that other world we can go back to the turning of the road where we lost
our ways ... and choose the other path."

* * * * *

Constancy and fixedness belong to strong characters. The granite crag
stands unchanging, but the waters at its base lash themselves into a
thousand shapes and colors and semblances. Hamilton had in him the
firmness of the hills, but Paul's nature was as fluid as the waters that
whirl or lilt along the easiest channels, and that turn aside to avoid
obstacles. On his table stood a photograph of Loraine Haswell in a gold
frame. It was a photograph of which there was no duplicate, and one
which her husband had not seen. When it had been taken the sitter had
selected a pose of graceful ease, as though the photographer had
ambushed her and caught her in a moment of almost sacred privacy, a
moment when she had relaxed into an attitude of intimate and somewhat
melancholy thought.

The slender