ve engendered for her own
daughter while she was still ignorant of her identity. She had found her
outward seeming a stepping-stone to a true conception of the
octogenarian, last seen in the early summer of a glorious womanhood.
Ruth Thrale's autumn, however much she still retained of a comely
maturity, had been in those days the budding springtime of a child of
four. Come what come might of the ravages of Time and Change, old Maisie
was prepared for it, after accepting such a change as that. Did she
know, and acknowledge to herself the advantage this had been to her,
that time when she had said to Gwen:--"How I wish you could stay, to
tell her that this is me!"

But the momentary unexpected strength that had enabled old Maisie to
rise from the bed could not last. She had only just power left to
say:--"I _am_ Maisie! I _am_ Maisie!" before speech failed; and her
daughter had to be prompt, close at hand though she was, to prevent her
falling. They got her back to the bed, frightened by what seemed
unconsciousness, but relieved a moment after by her saying:--"I was only
dizzy. Is this Phoebe's hand?" They were not seriously alarmed about her
then.

She remained very still, a hand of her sister and daughter in each of
hers, and the twilight grew, but none spoke a word. Keziah, at a hint
from Ruth, attended to the preparation of supper in the front-room. This
living unfed through hours of tension had to come to an end sometime.
They knew that _her_ silence was by choice, from a pressure of the hand
of either from time to time. It seemed to repeat her last words:--"I
_am_ Maisie. I _am_ Maisie."

That silence was welcome to them, for neither would have said a word by
choice. They could but sit speechless, stunned by the Past. Would they
ever be able to talk of it at all? A short parting gives those who
travel together on the road through Life a good spell of cheerful chat,
and each is overbrimming with the tale of adventure, grave or gay, of
the folk they have chanced upon, the inns they have slept at, a many
trifles with a leaven of seriousness not too weighty for speech. How is
it when the ways divided half a century ago, and no tidings came to hand
of either for the most part of a lifetime? How when either has believed
the other dead, through all those years? Neither old Phoebe nor Ruth
could possibly have felt the thing otherwise. But, that apart, silence
was easiest.

Presently, it was evident that she was sleeping