hat she might see him drive by, and counted that day lost which
brought her no sight of him. This was her one tenderness, her one
vulnerable point.

The afternoon shadows grew long and the maple branches ceased to sway.
Outside a bird crooned a lullaby to his nesting mate. An oriole
perched on the topmost twig of an evergreen in a corner of the yard,
and opened his golden throat in a rapture of song.

Love was abroad in the world that day. Bees hummed it, birds sang it,
roses breathed it. The black and gold messengers of the fields bore
velvety pollen from flower to flower, moving lazily on shimmering,
gossamer wings. A meadow-lark rose from a distant clover field,
dropping exquisite, silvery notes as he flew. The scent of green
fields and honeysuckles came in at the open window, mingled
inextricably with the croon of the bees, but Miss Mehitable knew only
that it was Summer, that the world was young, but she was old and alone
and would be alone for the rest of her life.

She leaned forward to look at the picture, and Anthony Dexter smiled
back at her, boyish, frank, eager, lovable. A tear dropped on the
pictured face--not the first one, for the photograph was blistered
oddly here and there.

"I've done all I could," said Miss Mehitable to herself, as she wrapped
it up again in its many yellowed folds of muslin. "I thought Minty
would be happier so, but maybe, after all, God knows best."

XXV

Redeemed

Miss Evelina sat alone, in her house, at peace with Anthony Dexter and
with all the world. The surging flood of forgiveness and compassion
which had swept over her as she gazed at his dead face, had broken down
all barriers, abrogated all reserves. She saw that Piper Tom was
right; had she forgiven him, she would have been free long ago.

She shrank no longer from her kind, but yearned, instead, for friendly
companionship. Once she had taken off her veil and started down the
road to Miss Mehitable's, but the habit of the years was strong upon
her, and she turned back, affrighted, when she came within sight of the
house.

Since she left the hospital, no human being had seen her face, save
Anthony Dexter and his son. She had crept, nun-like, into the shelter
of her chiffon, dimly taking note of a world which could not, in turn,
look upon her. She clung to it still, yet perceived that it was a lie.

She studied herself in the mirror, no longer hating the sight of her
own face. She was not no