happy and kind, glad to be walking with him. To-day too he was
cheerful, as if determined not to spoil her gaiety; and she was grateful
for this. Once or twice she even put her hand up and touched his sleeve,
calling his attention to birds or trees, friendly, and glad, after all
those hours of bitter feelings, to be giving happiness. When they parted
at the door of Valleys House, she looked back at him with a queer,
half-rueful smile. For, now the hour had come!

In a little unfrequented ante-room, all white panels and polish, she sat
down to wait. The entrance drive was visible from here; and she meant to
encounter Courtier casually in the hall. She was excited, and a little
scornful of her own excitement. She had expected him to be punctual,
but it was already past five; and soon she began to feel uneasy, almost
ridiculous, sitting in this room where no one ever came. Going to the
window, she looked out.

A sudden voice behind her, said:

"Auntie Babs!".

Turning, she saw little Ann regarding her with those wide, frank, hazel
eyes. A shiver of nerves passed through Barbara.

"Is this your room? It's a nice room, isn't it?"

She answered:

"Quite a nice room, Ann."

"Yes. I've never been in here before. There's somebody just come, so I
must go now."

Barbara involuntarily put her hands up to her cheeks, and quickly passed
with her niece into the hall. At the very door the footman William
handed her a note. She looked at the superscription. It was from
Courtier. She went back into the room. Through its half-closed door the
figure of little Ann could be seen, with her legs rather wide apart,
and her hands clasped on her low-down belt, pointing up at William her
sudden little nose. Barbara shut the door abruptly, broke the seal, and
read:

"DEAR LADY BARBARA,

"I am sorry to say my interview with your brother was fruitless.

"I happened to be sitting in the Park just now, and I want to wish you
every happiness before I go. It has been the greatest pleasure to know
you. I shall never have a thought of you that will not be my pride; nor
a memory that will not help me to believe that life is good. If I am
tempted to feel that things are dark, I shall remember that you are
breathing this same mortal air. And to beauty and joy' I shall take off
my hat with the greater reverence, that once I was permitted to walk and
talk, with you. And so, good-bye, and God bless you.

"Your faithful servant,

"CHARLES COU