ily to the cemetery. As he traversed the path along the edge
of the hill he saw in one of the grave-lots the heroine of his
yesterday's encounter, and a sudden light broke in on him: she was a
mourner. And yet how happened it that she wore no black? There was a
wooden railing round the enclosure, and within it a single mound and a
tombstone of fresh marble. A few cut flowers lay on the grave. She was
sitting in a low wicker chair, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes
fixed vacantly on the western hills. Putnam now took closer note of her
face. It was of a brown paleness. The air of hauteur given it by the
purity of the profile and the almost insolent stare of the large black
eyes was contradicted by the sweet, irresolute curves of the mouth. At
present her look expressed only a profound apathy. As he approached her
eyes turned toward him, but seemingly without recognition. Diffidence
was not among Tom Putnam's failings: he felt drawn by an unconquerable
sympathy and attraction to speak to her, even at the risk of intruding
upon the sacredness of her grief.

"Excuse me, miss," he began, stopping in front of her, "but I want to
apologize for what I said yesterday about--about the cemetery. It must
have seemed very heartless to you, but I didn't know that you were in
mourning when I spoke as I did."

"I have forgotten what you said," she answered.

"I am glad you have," said Putnam, rather fatuously. There seemed really
nothing further to say, but as he lingered for a moment before turning
away a perverse recollection surprised him, and he laughed out loud.

She cast a look of strong indignation at him, and rose to her feet.

"Oh, I ask your pardon a thousand times," he exclaimed reddening
violently. "Please don't think that I was laughing at anything to do
with you. The fact is that last idiotic speech of mine reminded me of
something that happened day before yesterday. I've been sick, and I met
a friend on the street who said, 'I'm glad you're better;' and I
answered, 'I'm glad that you're glad that I'm better;' and then he said,
'I'm glad that you're glad that I'm glad that you're better'--like the
House that Jack Built, you know--and it came over me all of a sudden
that the only way to continue our conversation gracefully would be for
you to say, 'I'm glad that you're glad that I've forgotten what you said
yesterday.'"

She had listened impatiently to this naive and somewhat incoherent
explanation, and she no