r from emptiness,
so I came logging along after him and--stayed. He was considerable
upset when he saw me and he never got to, what you might say, speaking
to me, but he was near and he ate the food I left on his steps and he
washed the plates and cups and that meant a lot to Philander. If I'd
been his proper wife he wouldn't have washed 'em. Men don't when they
get used to a woman.

"And then"--here Peneluna caught her breath--"then last night he
called from his winder and I came. He said, holding my hand like it
was the last thing left for him to hold: 'I didn't think I had a right
to you, Pen'--he used to call me Pen--'after what I did. And I've just
paid for my evil-doing up to the end, not taking comfort and
forgiveness--just paying!' I never let on, Mary-Clare, how I'd paid,
too. Men folks are blind-spotted, we've got to take 'em as they are.
Philander thought he had worked out his soul's salvation while he was
starving me, soul and body, but I never let on and he died smiling and
saying, 'The food was terrible staying, Pen, terrible staying.'"

Mary-Clare could see mistily the long, rigid figure on the bed, her
eyes ached with unshed tears; her heart throbbed like a heavy pain.
Here was something she had never understood; a thing so real and
strong that no earthly touch could kill it. What was it?

But Peneluna was talking on, her poor old face twitching.

"And now, Mary-Clare, him and me is man and wife before God and you.
You are terrible understanding, child. With all the fol-de-rol the old
doctor laid on yer, he laid his own spirit of knowing things on yer,
too. Suffering learns folks the understanding power. I reckon the old
doctor had had his share 'fore he came to the Forest--but how you got
to knowing things, child, and being tender and patient, 'stead of hot
and full of hate, I don't know! Now read, soft and low, so only us
three can hear--the last service."

Solemnly, with sweet intonations, Mary-Clare read on and on. Again the
bird came to the window ledge, looked in, and then flew off singing
jubilantly. Peneluna smiled a fleeting wintry smile and closed her
eyes; she seemed to be following the bird--or was it old Philander's
soul?

When the service came to an end, Peneluna arose and with grave dignity
walked from the room, Mary-Clare following.

"Now the Pointers can have their way 'cording to rule, Mary-Clare,"
she whispered, "but you and me understand, child. And listen to this,
I ain't mu