cknowledged the light."

Evelina shook her head. "Too late," she said, despairingly; "it is too
late."

"Ah," cried the Piper, "if you could only trust me! I have helped many
a soul into the sun again."

"I trusted," said Evelina, "and my trust was betrayed."

"Yes," he answered, "I know. I have trusted, too, and I have been
betrayed, also, but I know that the one who wronged me must suffer more
than I."

She laughed; a wild, fantastic laugh. "The one who wronged me," she
said, "has not suffered at all. He married in a year."

"There are different ways of suffering," he explained. "With a woman,
it is most often spread out over a long period. The quick, clean-cut
stroke is seldom given to a woman--she suffers less and longer than a
man. With him, I'm thinking, it has come, or will come, all at once."

"If it does," she cried, her frail body quivering, "what a day for him,
oh, what a day!"

Her voice was trembling with the hideous passion for revenge, and the
Piper read her, unerringly. "Lady," he said, sadly, "'t is a long way
to the light, but I'm here to help | you find it. We'll be going now.
Laddie and I, but we'll come back soon."

He whistled to the dog and the two went off downhill together. She
watched him from the gate until the bobbing red feather turned a corner
at the foot of the hill, and the cheery whistle had ceased.

The stillness was acute, profound. It was so deep that it seemed
positive, rather than negative. She went back into the house, her
steps dragging painfully.

As in a vision she saw the days passing her while she stood upon a
height. All around her were bare rocks and fearful precipices; there
was nothing but a narrow path in front. Day by day, they came,
peacefully, contentedly; till at last dawned that terrible one which
had blasted her life. Was it true that she still held that day by the
garment, and could not unclasp her hands?

One by one they had passed her, leaving no gifts, because she still
clung to one. If she could let go, what gifts would the others bring?
Joy? Never--there was no joy in the world for her.

Sometime that mystical procession must come to an end. When the last
day passed on, she would follow, too, and go into the night of
Yesterday, where, perhaps, there was peace. As never before, she
craved the last gift, praying to see the uplifted head and stately
figure of the last Day--grave, silent, unfathomable, tender; the Day
with the