y
often do, you know, sometimes for the rest of their lives."

Caleb lighted his pipe and cast about for his paper. "Maybe it's only
the natural consequence," he retorted, his face turned away, "of such a
pursuit as you mention. Maybe he feels the need of a long, long rest!"

And then Miss Sarah laughed.

An hour later, when she ran upstairs, Barbara found Caleb's tiny
spinster sister, in negligee and boudoir cap, sitting cross-legged like
a girl in the middle of the floor. There was an orderly litter of
papers around her, and a confusion of clothes; and Barbara hesitated on
the threshold until Miss Sarah nodded her head.

"Come in, my dear," she invited. "I'm indulging in one of the few joys
left to advanced, unmarried years, that is all. But even memories need
prodding with more material things, at times, I find."

The dark-eyed girl crossed and found a clear spot and seated herself.
Without seeming to look at her, Miss Sarah saw that those eyes were
vaguely troubled.

"I'm leaving to-morrow," Barbara began after a minute. "I came over to
say good-bye."

Miss Sarah went on with her sorting.

"We'll see you again soon," she suggested pleasantly.

There was trouble in the girl's voice, too.

"I--don't think so."

"It's a very pretty country--a hard country to forget." Miss Sarah
very wisely gave no heed to the woebegone note. "Perhaps," archly,
"perhaps you'll be returning as the new Mrs. Wickersham?"

Barbara flushed duskily. Miss Sarah, however, was gazing at a
dog-eared picture--a very old-fashioned picture of a youth in brave and
resplendent garb of a period long dead. No one but herself and her
brother had seen that photograph for many years, and he only because he
had rummaged in a pigeon-hole in which he had no licence to look. His
sister's eyes, as well as her posture, were girlish when she laid it
aside to hold up to view a battered black velvet suit with wide collars
and cuffs.

"I wonder if you could ever guess who once wore this?" she laughed
lightly.

Politely Barbara examined it.

"I'm sure I couldn't," she answered. And, very slowly:

"Miriam is going to marry Garry Devereau. She is disgracefully happy
about it."

The older woman received this irrelevance with composure.

"How charming," she said. "And I am sure that they will continue to be
as happy as I hope you will be soon. This suit was Steve's--little
Steve's. Dear me, what a day that was!"

After a moment o