softly to herself,
"I can understand."

And on the opposite side of the bed, between the long white curtains,
Kesiah was thinking, "Because I've never lived, but have stood apart and
watched life, I can understand."

Turning away presently, Molly went to the door, where she stood waiting
until the elder woman joined her.

"Is Mr. Chamberlayne still with Aunt Angela?" she asked.

"Yes. He was on his way to visit her when Cephus met him near the
cross-roads." For an instant she paused to catch her breath, and then
added softly, "Angela is bearing it beautifully."

Stooping over, she picked up a few scattered rose leaves from the
threshold and dropped them into the empty basket before she followed
Molly down the hall of the west wing to the lattice door, which opened
on the side-garden. Here the rustling of dead leaves grew louder, and
faint scents of decay and mould were wafted through the evanescent
beauty of the Indian summer.

While they stood there, Mr. Chamberlayne came down the staircase, wiping
his eyes, which were very red, on his white silk handkerchief.

"She bears it beautifully, just as we might have expected," he said "I
have seldom witnessed such fortitude, such saintly resignation to what
she feels to be the will of God."

Molly's eyes left his face and turned to the purple and gold of the
meadows, where webs of silver thistledown were floating over the
path she had trodden only a few hours ago. Nothing had changed in the
landscape--the same fugitive bloom was on the fields, the same shadows
were on the hillside, the same amber light was on the turnpike. She
thought of many things in that instant, but beneath them all, like
an undercurrent, ran the knowledge that Mrs. Gay was "bearing it
beautifully" behind her closed shutters. When her mind went back to the
past, she remembered the elder Jonathan, who had perished in the fine
silken mesh of the influence he was powerless to break. After this came
the memory of the day when Janet Merryweather had flung herself on the
mercy of the gentle heart, and had found it iron. And then she thought
of the son, who had drifted into deceit and subterfuge because he was
not strong enough to make war on a thing so helpless. He, also, had died
because he dared not throw off that remorseless tyranny of weakness.
Without that soft yet indomitable influence, he would never have lied
in the beginning, would never have covered his faithlessness with the
hypocrisy of du