Barbara sat by the old chest which held her completed work, frowning prettily over a note-book in her lap. She was very methodical, and, in some inscrutable way, things had become mixed. She kept track of every yard of lace and linen and every spool of thread, for, it was evident, she must know the exact cost of the material and the amount of time spent on a garment before it could be accurately priced.

Aunt Miriam had carefully pressed the lingerie after it was made and laid it away in the chest with lavender to keep it from turning yellow. There remained only the last finishing touches. Aunt Miriam could have put in the ribbons as well as she could, but Barbara chose to do it herself.

Three prices were put on each tag in Barbara's private cipher, understood only by Aunt Miriam. The highest was the one hoped for, the next the probable one, and the lowest one was to be taken only at the end of the season.

Already four or five early arrivals were reported at the hotel. By the end of next week, it would be proper for Aunt Miriam to go down with a few of the garments packed in a box with tissue paper, and see what she could do. Barbara had used nearly all of her material and had sent for more, but, in the meantime, she was using the scraps for handkerchiefs, pin-cushion covers, and heart-shaped corsage pads, delicately scented and trimmed with lace and ribbon.

Once, Aunt Miriam had gone to the city for material and patterns, and had priced hand-made lingerie in the shops. When she came back with an itemised report, Barbara had clapped her hands in glee, for she saw the wealth of Croesus looming up ahead. She had soon learned, however, that she must keep far below the city prices if she would tempt the horde of Summer visitors who came, yearly, to the hotel. At times, she thought that Aunt Miriam must have been dreadfully mistaken.

Barbara put down the highest price of every separate article in the small, neat hand that Aunt Miriam had taught her to write—for she had never been to school. If she should sell everything, why, there would be more than a year of comfort for them all, and new clothes for father, who was beginning to look shabby.

"But they won't," Barbara said to herself, sadly. "I can't expect them to buy it all when I'm asking so much."

Down in the living-room, Ambrose North was inquiring restlessly for Barbara. "Yes," he said, somewhat impatiently, "I know she's upstairs, for you've told me so twice. What I want to know is, why doesn't she come down?"

"She's busy at something, probably," returned Miriam, with forced carelessness, "but I think she'll soon be through."

"Barbara is always busy," he answered, with a sigh. "I can't understand it. Anyone might think she had to work for a living. By the way, Miriam, do you need more money?"

"We still have some," she replied, in a low voice.

"How much?" he demanded.

"Less than a hundred dollars." She did not dare to say how much less.

"That is not enough. If you will get my check-book, I will write another check."

Miriam's face was grimly set and her eyes burned strangely beneath her dark brows. She went to the mahogany desk and took an old check-book out of the drawer.

"Now," he said, as she gave him the pen and ink, "please show me the line. 'Pay to the order of'——"

She guided his hand with her own, trying to keep her cold fingers from trembling. "Miriam Leonard," he spelled out, in uneven characters, "Five—hundred—dollars. Signed—Ambrose—North. There. When you have no money, I wish you would speak of it. I am fully able to provide for my family, and I want to do it."

"Thank you." Miriam's voice was almost inaudible as she took the check.

"The date," he said; "I forgot to date it. What day of the month is it?"

She moistened her parched lips, but did not speak. This was what she had been dreading.

"The date, Miriam," he called. "Will you please tell me what day of the month it is?"

"The seventh," she answered, with difficulty.

"The seventh? The seventh of June?"

"Yes."

There was a long pause. "Twenty-one years," he said, in a shrill whisper. "Twenty-one years ago to-day."

Miriam sat down quietly on the other side of the room. Her eyes were glittering and she was moving her hands nervously. This dreadful anniversary had, for her, its own particular significance. Upstairs, Barbara, light-hearted and hopeful, was singing to herself while she pinned on the last of the price tags and built her air-castle. The song came down lightly, yet discordantly. It was as though a waltz should be played at an open grave.

"Miriam," cried Ambrose North, passionately, "why did she kill herself? In God's name, tell me why!"

"I do not know," murmured Miriam. He had asked her more than fifty times, and she always gave the same answer.

"But you must know—someone must know! A woman does not die by her own hand without having a reason! She was well and strong, loved, taken care of and petted, she had all that the world could give her, and hosts of friends. I was blind and Barbara was lame, but she loved us none the less. If I only knew why!" he cried, miserably; "Oh, if I only knew why!"

Miriam, unable to bear more, went out of the room. She pressed her cold hands to her throbbing temples. "I shall go mad," she muttered. "How long, O Lord, how long!"

Twenty-one years ago to-day, Constance North had, intentionally, taken an overdose of laudanum. She had left a note to her husband begging him to forgive her, and thanking him for all his kindness to her during the three years they had lived together. She had also written a note to Miriam, asking her to look after the blind man and to be a mother to Barbara. Enclosed were two other letters, sealed with wax. One was addressed "To My Daughter, Barbara. To be opened on her twenty-second birthday." Miriam had both the letters safely put away. It was not time for Barbara to have hers and she had never delivered the other to the person to whom it was addressed—so often does the arrogant power of the living deny the holiest wishes of the dead.

The whole scene came vividly back to Miriam—the late afternoon sun streaming in glory from the far hills into Constance North's dainty sitting-room, upstairs; the golden-haired woman, in the full splendour of her youth and beauty, lying upon the couch asleep, with a smile of heavenly peace upon her lips; the blind man's hands straying over her as she lay there, with his tears falling upon her face, and blue-eyed Barbara, cooing and laughing in her own little bed in the next room.

Miriam had found the notes on the dressing-table, and had lied. She had said there were but two when, in reality, there were four. Two had been read and destroyed; the other two, with unbroken seals, were waiting to be read. She was keeping the one for Barbara; the other had tortured her through all of the twenty years.

The time had passed when she could have delivered it, for the man to whom it was addressed was dead. But he had survived Constance by nearly five years, and, at any time during those five years, Miriam might have given it to him, unseen and safely. She justified herself by dwelling upon her care of Barbara and the blind man, and the fact that she would give Barbara her letter upon the appointed day. Sternly she said to herself: "I will fulfil one trust. I will keep faith with Constance in this one way, bitterly though she has wronged me."

Yet the fulfilment of one trust seemed not to be enough, for her sleep was haunted by the pleading eyes of Constance, asking mutely for some boon. Until the man died, Constance had come often, with her hands outstretched, craving that which was so little and yet so much. After his death, Constance still continued to come, but less often and reproachfully; she seemed to ask for nothing now.

Miriam had grown old, but Constance, though sad, was always young. One of Death's surpassing gifts is eternal youth to those whom he claims too soon. In her old husband's grieving heart, Constance had assumed immortal beauty as well as immortal youth. She was now no older than Barbara, who still sang heedlessly upstairs.

Every night of the twenty-one years, Miriam had closed her eyes in dread. When she dreamed it was always of Constance—Constance laughing or singing, Constance bringing "the light that never was on sea or land" to the fine, grave face of Ambrose North; Constance hugging little lame Barbara to her breast with passionate, infinitely pitying love. And, above all, Constance in her grave-clothes, dumb, reproachful, her sad eyes fixed on Miriam in pleading that was almost prayer.

"Miriam! Oh, Miriam!" The blind man in the next room was calling her. Fearfully, she went back.

"Sit down," said Ambrose North. "Sit down near me, where I can touch your hand. How cold your fingers are! I want to thank you for all you have done for us—for my little girl and for me. You have been so faithful, so watchful, so obedient to her every wish."

Miriam shrank from him, for the kindly words stung like a lash on flesh already quivering.

"We have always been such good friends," he said, reminiscently. "Do you remember how much we were together all that year, until Constance came home from school?"

"I have not forgotten," said Miriam, in a choking whisper. A surge of passionate hate swept over her even now, against the dead woman whose pretty face had swerved Ambrose North from his old allegiance.

"And I shall not forget," he answered, kindly. "I am on the westward slope, Miriam, and have been, for a long time. But a few more years—or months—or days—as God wills, and I shall join her again, past the sunset, where she waits for me."I have made things right for you and Barbara. Roger Austin has my will, dividing everything I have between you. I should like your share to go to Barbara, eventually, if you can see your way clear to do it."

"Don't!" cried Miriam, sharply. The strain was insupportable.

"I do not wish to pain you, Sister," answered the old man, with gentle dignity, "but sometimes it is necessary that these things be said. I shall not speak of it again. Will you give me back the check, please, and show me where to date it? I shall date it to-morrow—I cannot bear to write down this day."

When Barbara came down, her father was sitting at the old square piano, quite alone, improvising music that was both beautiful and sad. He seldom touched the instrument, but, when he did, wayfarers in the street paused to listen.

"Are you making a song, Father?" she asked, softly, when the last deep chord died away.

"No," he sighed; "I cannot make songs to-day."

"There is always a song, Daddy," she reminded him. "You told me so yourself."

"Yes, I know, but not to-day. Do you know what to-day is, my dear?"

"The seventh—the seventh of June."

"Twenty-one years ago to-day," he said, with an effort, "your dear mother took her own life." The last words were almost inaudible.

Barbara went to him and put her soft arms around his neck. "Daddy!" she whispered, with infinite sympathy, "Daddy!"

He patted her arm gently, unable to speak. She said no more, but the voice and the touch brought healing to his pain. Bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh, the daughter of the dead Constance was thrilled unspeakably with a tenderness that the other had never given him.

"Sit down, my dear," said Ambrose North, slowly releasing her. "I want to talk to you—of her. Did I hear Aunt Miriam go out?"

"Yes, just a few minutes ago."

"You are almost twenty-two, are you not, Barbara?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Then you are a woman grown. Your dear mother was twenty-two, when—" He choked on the words.

"When she died," whispered Barbara, her eyes luminous with tears.

"Yes, when she—died. I have never known why, Barbara, unless it was because I was blind and you were lame. But all these years there has been a torturing doubt in my heart. Before you were born, and after my blindness, I fancied that a change came over her. She was still tender and loving, but it was not quite in the same way. Sometimes I felt that she had ceased to love me. Do you think my blindness could—?"

"Never, Father, never." Barbara's voice rang out strong and clear. "That would only have made her love you more."

"Thank you, my dear. Someway it comforts me to have you say it. But, after you came, I felt the change even more keenly. You have read in the books, doubtless, many times, that a child unites those who bring it into the world, but I have seen, quite as often, that it divides them by a gulf that is never bridged again."

"Daddy!" cried Barbara, in pain. "Didn't you want me?"

"Want you?" he repeated, in a tone that made the words a caress. "I wanted you always, and every day I want you more. I am only trying to say that her love seemed to lessen, instead of growing, as time went on. If I could know that she died loving me, I would not ask why. If I could know that she died loving me—if I were sure she loved me still—"

"She did, Daddy—I know she did."

"If I might only be so sure! But the ways of the Everlasting are not our ways, and life is made up of waiting."

Insensibly relieved by speech, his pain gradually merged into quiet acceptance, if not resignation. "Shall you marry some day, Barbara?" he asked, at last.

"If the right man comes—otherwise not."

"Much is written of it in the books, and I know you read a great deal, but some things in the books are not true, and many things that are true are not written. They say that a man of fifty should not marry a girl of twenty and expect to be happy. Miriam was fifteen years older than Constance and at first I thought of her, but when your mother came from school, with her blue eyes and golden hair and her pretty, laughing ways, there was but one face in all the world for me.

"We were so happy, Barbara! The first year seemed less than a month, it passed so quickly. The books will tell you that the first joy dies. Perhaps it does, but I do not know, because our marriage lasted only three years. It may be that, after many years, the heart does not beat faster at the sound of the beloved's step; that the touch of the loving hand brings no answering clasp.

"But the divinest gift of marriage is this—the daily, unconscious growing of two souls into one. Aspirations and ambitions merge, each with the other, and love grows fast to love. Unselfishness answers to unselfishness, tenderness responds to tenderness, and the highest joy of each is the well-being of the other. The words of Church and State are only the seal of a predestined compact. Day by day and year by year the bond becomes closer and dearer, until at last the two are one, and even death is no division.

"A grave has lain between us for more than twenty years, but I am still her husband—there has been no change. And, if she died loving me, she is still mine. If she died loving me—if—she—died—loving me——"

His voice broke at the end, and he went out, murmuring the words to himself. Barbara watched him from the window as he opened the gate. Her face was wet with tears.

Flaming banners of sunset streamed from the hills beyond him, but his soul could see no Golden City to-night. He went up the road that led to another hillside, where, in the long, dreamy shadows, the dwellers in God's acre lay at peace. Barbara guessed where he was going and her heart ached for him—kneeling in prayer and vigil beside a sunken grave, to ask of earth a question to which the answer was lost, in heaven—or in hell.