an awful sight of money," said Eunice, in an
awed tone. Then she stopped, for Maria re-entered the room with the
roses in a tall vase. She wore some of them pinned to the shoulder of
her blue gown that evening. She knew who had sent them, and it seemed
to her that she did not overestimate the significance of the sending.
When she started for Westbridge that evening she was radiant. She had
the roses carefully pinned in tissue-paper to protect them from the
cold; her long, blue cloak swept about her in graceful folds, she
wore a blue hat with a long, blue feather.

"Why didn't you wear a head tie?" asked Aunt Maria. "Ain't you afraid
you will spoil that hat if you take it off? The feather will get all
mussy."

"I shall put it in a safe place," replied Maria, smiling. She blushed
as she spoke. She knew perfectly well herself why she wore that hat,
because she thought Wollaston might escort her to the trolley, and
she wished to appear at her best in his eyes. Maria no longer
disguised from herself the fact that she loved this man who was her
husband and not her husband. She knew that she was entirely ready to
respond to his advances, should he make any, that she would be
happier than she had ever been in her whole life if the secret which
had been the horror of her life should be revealed. She wondered if
it would not be better to have another wedding. That night she had
not much doubt of Wollaston's love for her. When she entered the car,
and saw besides herself several young girls prinked in their best,
who were also going to the Christmas-tree, she felt a sort of amused
pride, that all their prinking and preening was in vain. She assumed
that all of them had dressed to attract Wollaston. She could not
think of any other man whom any girl could wish to attract. She sat
radiant with her long, blue feather sweeping the soft, yellow puff of
her hair. She gave an affect of smiling at everybody, at all
creation. She really felt for the first time that she could remember
a sense of perfect acquiescence with the universal scheme of things,
therefore she felt perfect content and happiness. She thought how
wonderful it was that poor Gladys Mann, lying in her unmarked grave
this Christmas-time, should have been the means, all unwittingly, of
bringing such bliss to herself. She thought how wonderful that
Evelyn's loss should have been the first link in such a sequence. She
thought of Evelyn with a sort of gratitude, as if she ha