"Fairy Godmother," said Barbara, "I should like a drink."

"Fairy Godchild," answered Eloise, "you shall have one. What do you want—rose-dew, lilac-honey, or a golden lily full of clear, cool water?"

"I'll take the water, please," laughed Barbara, "but I want more than a lily full."

Eloise brought a glass of water and managed to give it to Barbara without spilling more than a third of it upon her. "What a pretty neck and what glorious shoulders you have," she commented, as she wiped up the water with her handkerchief. "How lovely you'd look in an evening gown."

"Don't try to divert me," said Barbara, with affected sternness. "I'm wet, and I'm likely to take cold and die."

"I'm not afraid of your dying after you've lived through what you have. Allan says you're the bravest little thing he has ever seen."

The deep colour dyed Barbara's pale face. "I'm not brave," she whispered; "I was horribly afraid, but I thought that, even if I were, I could keep people from knowing it."

"If that isn't real courage," Eloise assured her, "it's so good an imitation that it would take an expert to tell the difference."

"I'm afraid now," continued Barbara. Her colour was almost gone and she did not look at Eloise. "I'm afraid that, after all, I can never walk." She indicated the crutches at the foot of her bed by a barely perceptible nod. "I have Aunt Miriam keep them there so that I won't forget."

"Nonsense," cried Eloise. "Allan says that you have every possible chance, so don't be foolish. You're going to walk—you must walk. Why, you mustn't even think of anything else."

"It would seem strange," sighed Barbara, "after almost twenty-two years, why—what day of the month is to-day?"

"The sixteenth."

"Then it is twenty-two. This is my birthday—I'm twenty-two years old to-day."

"Fairy Godchild, why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I'd forgotten it myself."

"You're too young to begin to forget your birthdays. I'm past thirty, but I still 'keep tab' on mine."

"If you're thirty, I must be at least forty, for I'm really much older than you are. And Roger is an infant in arms compared with me."

"Wise lady, how did you grow so old in so short a time?"

"By working and reading, and thinking—and suffering, I suppose."

"When you're well, dear, I'm going to try to give you some of the girlhood you've never had. You're entitled to pretty gowns and parties and beaux, and all the other things that belong to the teens and twenties. You're coming to town with me, I hope—that's why I'm staying."

Barbara's blue eyes filled and threatened to overflow. "Oh, Fairy Godmother, how lovely it would be. But I can't go. I must stay here and sew and try to make up for lost time. Besides, father would miss me so."

Eloise only smiled, for she had plans of her own for father. "We won't argue," she said, lightly, "we'll wait and see. It's a great mistake to try to live to-morrow, or even yesterday, to-day."

When Eloise went back to the hotel, her generous heart full of plans for her protÉgÉ, Miriam did not hear her go out, and so it happened that Barbara was alone for some time. Ambrose North had gone for one of his long walks over the hills and along the shore, expecting to return before Eloise left Barbara. For some vague reason which he himself could not have put into words, he did not like to leave her alone with Miriam.

When Miriam came upstairs, she paused at the door to listen. Hearing no voices, she peeped within. Barbara lay quietly, looking out of the window, and dreaming of the day when she could walk freely and joyously, as did the people who passed and repassed.

Miriam went stealthily to her own room, and took out the letter to Barbara. She had no curiosity as to its contents. If she had, it would be an easy matter to open it, and put it into another envelope, without the address, and explain that it had been merely enclosed with instructions as to its delivery.

Taking it, she went into the room where Barbara lay—the same room where the dead Constance had lain so long before.

"Barbara," she said, without emotion, "when your mother died she left this letter for you, in my care." She put it into the girl's eager, outstretched hand and left the room, closing the door after her.

With trembling fingers, Barbara broke the seal, and took out the closely written sheet. All four pages were covered. The ink had faded and the paper was yellow, but the words were still warm with love and life.

The last words danced through the blurring mist and Barbara sobbed aloud as she put the letter down. Blind though he was, her father had felt the lack—the change. The pity of it all overwhelmed her.

Her thought flew swiftly to Roger, but—no, he must not know. This letter was written to the living and not to the dead. Aunt Miriam would ask no questions—she was sure of that—but the message to her father lay heavily upon her soul. How could she make him believe in the love he so hungered for even now?

As the hours passed, Barbara became calm. When Miriam came in to see if she wanted anything, she asked for pencil and paper, and for a book to be propped up on a pillow in front of her, so that she might write.

Miriam obeyed silently, taking an occasional swift, keen look at Barbara, but the calm, impassive face and the deep eyes were inscrutable.

As soon as she was alone again, she began to write, with difficulty, from her mother's letter, altering it as little as possible, and yet changing the meaning of it all. She could trust herself to read from her own sheet, but not from the other. It took a long time, but at last she was satisfied.

It was almost dusk when Ambrose North returned, and Barbara asked for a candle to be placed on the small table at the head of her bed. She also sent away the book and pencil and the paper she had not used. Miriam's curiosity was faintly aroused, but, as she told herself, she could wait. She had already waited long.

"Daddy," said, Barbara, softly, when they were alone, "do you know what day it is?"

"No," he answered; "why?"

"It's my birthday—I'm twenty-two to-day."

"Are you? Your dear mother was twenty-two when she—I wish you were like your mother, Barbara."

"Mother left a letter with Aunt Miriam," said Barbara, gently. "She gave it to me to-day."

The old man sprang to his feet. "A letter!" he cried, reaching out a trembling hand. "For me?"

Barbara laughed—a little sadly. "No, Daddy—for me. But there is something for you in it. Sit down, and I'll read it to you."

"Read it all," he cried. "Read every word."

"Barbara, my darling, my little lame baby," read the girl, her voice shaking, "if you live to read this letter, your mother will have been dead for many years, and possibly forgotten."

"No," breathed Ambrose North—"never forgotten."

"I have chosen your twenty-second birthday for this, because I am twenty-two now, and when you are the same age, it will be as if we were sisters, rather than mother and daughter."

"Dear Constance," whispered the old man.

"When I came from school, I met your father. He was a brilliant man, handsome, courteous, distinguished, of fine character and unassailable position."

Barbara glanced up quickly. The dull red had crept into his wrinkled cheeks, but his lips were parted in a smile.

"There is not a word to be said of him that is not wholly good. He has failed at no point, nor in the smallest degree. I have disappointed him, I fear, even though I love him dearly and always have. I have never loved him more than I do to-day, when I leave you both forever.

"Tell your dear father, if he still lives, that he has been very good to me, that I appreciate all his kindness, gentleness, patience, and the beautiful love he has given me. Tell him I am sorry I have failed him——"

"Oh, dear God!" he cried. "She fail?"

"That I have not been a better wife," Barbara went on, brokenly. "Tell him I have loved him, that I love him still, and have never loved him more than I do to-day.

"Forgive me, both of you, and love me if you can. Your Mother."

In the tense silence, Barbara folded up both sheets and put them back into the envelope. Still, she did not dare to look at her father. When, at last, she turned to him, sorely perplexed and afraid, he was still sitting at her bedside. He had not moved a muscle, but he had changed. If molten light had suddenly been poured over him from above, while the rest of the room lay in shadow, he could not have changed more.

The sorrowful years had slipped from him, and, as though by magic, Youth had come back. His shoulders were still stooped, his face and hands wrinkled, and his hair was still as white as the blown snow, but his soul was young, as never before.

"Barbara," he breathed, in ecstasy. "She died loving me."

The slender white hand stole out to his, half fearfully. "Yes, Daddy, I've always told you so, don't you know?" Her senses whirled, but she kept her voice even.

"She died loving me," he whispered.

The clock ticked steadily, a door closed below, and a little bird outside chirped softly. There was no other sound save the wild beating of Barbara's heart, which she alone heard. Still transfigured, he sat beside the bed, holding her hand in his.

Far-away voices sounded faintly in his ears, for, like a garment, the years had fallen from him and taken with them the questioning and the fear. Into his doubting heart Constance had come once more, radiant with new beauty, thrilling his soul to new worship and new belief.

"She died loving me," he said, as though he could scarcely believe his own words. "Barbara, I know it is much to ask, for it must be very precious to you, but—would you let me hold the letter? Would you let me feel the words I cannot see?"

Choking back a sob, Barbara took both sheets out of the envelope and gave them to him. "Show me," he whispered, "show me the line where she wrote, 'Tell him I love him still, and have never loved him more than I do to-day.'"

When Barbara put his finger upon the words, he bent and kissed them. "What does it say here?"

He pointed to the paragraph beginning, "I have made the mistake which many girls make."

"It says," answered Barbara, "'There is not a word to be said of him that is not wholly good.'" He bent and kissed that, too. "And here?" His finger pointed to the line, "I did not know that a woman could love love, rather than the man who gave it to her."

"That is where it says again, 'Tell him I have loved him, that I love him still, and have never loved him more than I do to-day.'"

"Dear, blessed Constance," he said, crushing the lie to his lips. "Dear wife, true wife; truest of all the world."

Barbara could bear no more. "Let me have the letter again, Daddy."

"No, dear, no. After all these years of waiting, let me keep it for a little while. Just for a little while, Barbara. Please." His voice broke at the end.

"For a little while, then, Daddy," she said, slowly; "only a little while."

He went out, with the precious letter in his hand. Miriam was in the hall, but he was unconscious of the fact. She shrank back against the wall as he passed her, with his fine old face illumined as from some light within.

In his own room, he sat down, after closing the door, and spread the two sheets on the table before him. He moved his hands caressingly over the lines Constance had written in ink and Barbara in pencil.

"She died loving me," he said to himself, "and I was wrong. She did not change when I was blind and Barbara was lame. All these years I have been doubting her while her own assurance was in the house.

"She thought she failed me—the dear saint thought she failed. It must take me all eternity to atone to her for that. But she died loving me." His thought lingered fondly upon the words, then the tears streamed suddenly over his blind face.

"Oh, Constance, Constance," he cried aloud, forgetting that the dead cannot hear. "You never failed me! Forgive me if you can."