Evans had found his mother at noon, lying on the couch at the foot of her bed. He had stayed at home in the morning to help her, and at ten o’clock she had gone up-stairs to rest a bit before lunch. Old Mary had called her, and she had not answered. So Evans had entered her room to find that she had slipped away peacefully from the world in which she exaggerated her own importance. It would go on without her. She had not been neighborly but the neighbors would all come and sympathize with her son. And they would miss her, because she had added to the community some measure of stateliness, which they admired even as they resented it.

Evans had tried to get Baldy on the telephone, but could not. Jane was at Grass Hills. He would call up at long distance later. There was no reason why he should spoil for them this day of days.

So he had done the things that had to be done in the shadowed house. Dr. Hallam came, and others. Evans saw them and they went away. He moved in a dream. He had no one to share intimately his sorrow—no sister, no brother, no one, except his little dog, who trailed after him, wistful-eyed, and with limping steps.

The full force of the thing that had happened did not come to him at once. He had a feeling that at any moment his mother might sweep in from the out-of-doors, in her white linen and flat black hat, and sit at the head of the table, and tell him the news of the morning.

He had had no lunch, so old Mary fixed a tray for him. He did not eat, but drank some milk. Then he and Rusty took up their restless wandering through the silent rooms. Old Mary, true to tradition, had drawn all the blinds and shut many of the windows, so that the house was filled with a sort of golden gloom. Evans went into his mother’s little office on the first floor, and sat down at her desk. It was in perfect order, and laid out on the blotter was the writing paper with the golden crest, and the box of golden seals. And he had laughed at her! He remembered with a pang that they would never again laugh together. He was alone.

He wondered why such things happened. Was all of life as sinister as this? Must one always find tragedy at every turn of the road? He had lost his youth, had lost Jane. And now his mother. Was everything to be taken away? Would there be nothing left but strength to endure?

Well, God helping him, he would endure to the end....He closed the desk gently and went out into the darkened hall. As he followed its length, a door opened at the end. Black against the brightness beyond, he saw the two lads. They came forward with some hesitation, but when they saw his tired face, they forgot self-consciousness.

“We just heard. And we want to help.” Sandy was spokesman. Arthur was speechless. But he caught hold of Evans’ sleeve and looked up at him. His eyes said what his voice refused.

Evans, with his arms across their shoulders, drew the boys to him. “It was good of you to come.”

“Miss Barnes said,” again it was Sandy who spoke, “that perhaps we might get some pine from the little grove. That your mother liked it.”

“Miss Barnes? Is she back? Does she know?”

“We told her. She is coming right over.”

Baldy drove Jane in his little car. As she entered she seemed to bring the light in with her. She illumined the house like a torch.

She walked swiftly towards Evans, and held out her hand. “My dear, I am so sorry.”

“I thought you were at Grass Hills.”

“We came back unexpectedly.”

“I am so glad—you came.”

He was having a bad time with his voice. He could not go on....

Jane spoke to the boys. “Did you ask him about the pine branches? Just those, and roses from the garden, Evans.”“You always think of things——”

“Baldy will take the boys to the grove, and do any errands you may have for him.” She was her calm and competent self—letting him get control of his emotion while she directed others.

Baldy, coming in, wrung Evans’ hand. “The boys and I will get the pine, and Edith Towne is coming out to help. I called her up to tell her——”

Baldy stopped at that. He could not speak here of the glory that encompassed him. He had said, “If death should come to us, Edith! Does anything else count?” And she had said, “Nothing.” And now she was coming and they would pick roses together in the garden. And love and life would minister to a greater mystery....

When Baldy and the boys had gone, Jane and Evans opened the windows and pulled up the shades. The house was filled with clear light, and was cool in the breeze.

When they had finished, Jane said, “That’s all, I think. We can rest a bit. And presently it will be time for dinner.”

“I don’t want any dinner.”

They were in the library. Outside was an amethyst twilight, with a young moon low in the sky. Evans and Jane stood by the window, looking out, and Jane asked in a hushed voice, “You don’t want any dinner because she won’t be at the other end of the table?”“Yes.” His face was turned from her. His hands were clinched. His throat was dry. For a moment he wished he were alone that he might weep for his mother.

And then Jane said, “Let me sit at the other end of your table.”

He turned back to her, and saw her eyes, and what he saw made him reach out blindly for her hand—sympathy, tenderness—a womanly brooding tenderness.

“Oh, Evans, Evans,” she said, “I am not going to marry Frederick Towne.”

“Why not?” thickly.

“I don’t love him.”

“Do you love me, Jane?”

She nodded and could not speak. They clung together. He wept and was not ashamed of it.

And standing there, with his head against her breast, Jane knew that she had found the best. Marriage was not a thing of luxury and soft living, of flaming moments of wild emotion. It was a thing of hardness shared, of spirit meeting spirit, of dream matching dream. Jane, that afternoon, had caught her breath as she had come into the darkened hall, and had seen Evans standing between those slender lads. So some day, perhaps, in this old house—his sons!