the
shots were fired. But there were circumstances I can not touch
upon to you which made them disapprove--which made my facing
him just then seem unchivalrous. I saw it in Bristow's face,
and liked him the better for it, even while it touched my
pride. They could not know, of course, that I did not intend to
fire. Well, you and they will know it now! And Bristow has my
pistol; he will find it undischarged--thank God, thank God!

"But will that matter to you? If you loved Sassoon, I shall
always in your mind stand as the indirect cause of his death!
It is for this reason I am going away--I could not bear to look
in your accusing eyes and hear you say it. Nor could I bear to
stay here, a reminder to you of such a horror. If you love me,
you will write and call me back to you. Oh, Judith, Judith, my
own dear love! I pray God you will!"

She put the letter down and laid her face upon it. "Beauty! Beauty!"
she whispered, dry-eyed. "I never knew! I never knew! But it
would have made no difference, darling. I would have forgiven you
anything--everything! You know that, now, dear! You have been certain
of it all these years that have been so empty, empty to me!"

* * * * *

But when the faded rose-colored gown and the poor time-yellowed slippers
had been laid back in the haircloth trunk; when, her door once more
unbolted, she lay in her bed in the dim glow of the reading-lamp, with
her curling silvery hair drifting across the pillow and the letter
beneath it, at last the tears came coursing down her cheeks.

And with the loosening of her tears, gradually and softly came
joy--infinitely deeper than the anguish and sense of betrayal. It poured
upon her like a trembling flood. Long, long ago he had gone out of the
world--it was only his memory that counted to her. Now that could no
longer spell pain or emptiness or denial. It was engoldened by a new
light, and in that light she would walk gently and smilingly to the end.

She found the slender golden chain that hung about her neck and opened
the little black locket with its circlet of laureled pearls. And as she
gazed at the face it held, which time had not touched with change, the
sound of Shirley's harp came softly in through the window. She was
playing an old-fashioned song, of the sort she knew her mother loved
best:

"Darling, I am growing old.
Silver threa