t
Sevenoaks, where I was last. Six shillings was too much for me alone. It
is only seven-and-sixpence at Sapps for both of us. It was through poor
Susan Burr that I came there. To think of her in the Hospital!"

"She's going on very nicely to-day. I went to see her with my cousin. Go
on. It was through her?..."

"Through her I came to Sapps. She wanted to be in town for her work, and
found Sapps. She had no furniture, or just a bed. And I had been able to
keep mine. Then, you see, I wanted a helping hand now and again, and she
had her sight, and could make shift to keep order in the place. I had
every comfort, be sure!" This was spoken with roused emphasis, as though
to dissipate uneasiness about herself.

"I saw you had some nice furniture," said Gwen. "I was on the look out
for your desk, where Dave's letters were written."

"Yes, it's mahogany. I was frightened about it, for fear it should be
scratched. But Davy's Aunt Maria was saying Mr. Bartlett's men had been
very civil and careful, and all the furniture was safe in the bedroom at
the back, and the door locked."

"But where did the furniture come from?"

"From the house."

"The house where you lived with your husband?"

The old woman started. "Oh no! Oh no--no! All that was long--long ago."
She shrank from disinterring all but the most recent past.

But it was the deeper stratum of oblivion that had to be reached,
without dynamite if possible. "I see," Gwen said. "Your own house after
his death?"

Memory was restive, evidently--rather resented the inquiry. Still, a
false inference could not be left uncorrected. "Neither my husband's nor
mine," was the answer. "It was my son's house, after my husband's
death." Its tone meant plainly:--"I tell you this, for truth's sake.
But, please, no more questions!"

Gwen's idea honestly was to drop the curtain, and her half-dozen words
were meant for the merest epilogue. When she said:--"And he is dead,
too?" she only wanted to round off the conversation. She was shocked
when the two delicate old hands hers lay between closed upon it almost
convulsively, and could hardly believe she heard rightly the articulate
sob, rather than speech, that came from the old lady's lips.

"Oh, I hope so--I hope so!"

"Dear Mrs. Picture, you _hope_ so?" For Gwen could not reconcile this
with the ideal she had formed of the speaker. At least, she could not be
happy now without an explanation.

Then she saw that it would come, g