Tavie's. A whiff of dust from the road had blown in and
she wiped her cheeks and her eyes with her soft, white handkerchief,
a homemade handkerchief, fabricated from one of her old fine muslin
petticoats.

"Will you do me the favor, Octavie," requested the judge in the
courteous tone which he never abandoned, "to remove that veil which you
wear. It seems out of harmony, someway, with the beauty and promise of
the day."

The young girl obediently yielded to her old companion's wish and
unpinning the cumbersome, sombre drapery from her bonnet, folded it
neatly and laid it upon the seat in front of her.

"Ah! that is better; far better!" he said in a tone expressing unbounded
relief. "Never put it on again, dear." Octavie felt a little hurt; as if
he wished to debar her from share and parcel in the burden of affliction
which had been placed upon all of them. Again she drew forth the old
muslin handkerchief.

They had left the big road and turned into a level plain which had
formerly been an old meadow. There were clumps of thorn trees here and
there, gorgeous in their spring radiance. Some cattle were grazing off
in the distance in spots where the grass was tall and luscious. At the
far end of the meadow was the towering lilac hedge, skirting the lane
that led to Judge Pillier's house, and the scent of its heavy blossoms
met them like a soft and tender embrace of welcome.

As they neared the house the old gentleman placed an arm around the
girl's shoulders and turning her face up to him he said: "Do you not
think that on a day like this, miracles might happen? When the whole
earth is vibrant with life, does it not seem to you, Octavie, that
heaven might for once relent and give us back our dead?" He spoke very
low, advisedly, and impressively. In his voice was an old quaver which
was not habitual and there was agitation in every line of his visage.
She gazed at him with eyes that were full of supplication and a certain
terror of joy.

They had been driving through the lane with the towering hedge on one
side and the open meadow on the other. The horses had somewhat quickened
their lazy pace. As they turned into the avenue leading to the house, a
whole choir of feathered songsters fluted a sudden torrent of melodious
greeting from their leafy hiding places.

Octavie felt as if she had passed into a stage of existence which was
like a dream, more poignant and real than life. There was the old gray
house with its slo