Crushed and almost broken-hearted, Barbara sat in the dining-room. The air was heavy with the overpowering scent of tuberoses. From the room beyond came the solemn words of the burial service: "I am the resurrection and the life. He that believeth on me, though he were dead, yet shall he live."

The words beat unbearably upon her ears. The walls of the room moved as though they were of fabric, stirred by winds of hell. The floor undulated beneath her feet and black mists blinded her. Her hands were so cold that she scarcely felt the friendly, human touch on either side of her chair.

Roger held one of her cold little hands in both his own, yearning to share her grief, to divide it in some way; even to bear it for her. On the other side was Doctor Conrad, profoundly moved. His science had not yet obliterated his human instincts and he was neither ashamed of the mist in his eyes nor of the painful throbbing of his heart. His fingers were upon Barbara's pulse, where the lifetide moved so slowly that he could barely feel it.

On the other side of the room, alien and apart, as always, sat Miriam. She wore her best black gown, but her face was inscrutable. Perhaps the lines were more sharply cut, perhaps the rough, red hands moved more nervously than usual, and perhaps the deep-set black eyes burned more fiercely, but no one noticed—or cared.

The deep voice in the room beyond was vibrant with tenderness. The man who stood near Ambrose North as he lay in his last sleep had been summoned from town by Eloise. He did not make the occasion an excuse for presenting his own particular doctrine, bolstered up by argument, nor did he bid his hearers rejoice and be glad. He admitted, at the beginning, that sorrow lay heavily upon the hearts of those who loved Ambrose North and did not say that God was chastening them for their own good.

He spoke of Life as the rainbow that brilliantly spans two mysterious silences, one of which is dawn and the other sunset. This flaming arc must end, as it begins, in pain, but, past the silence, and, perhaps, in even greater mystery, the circle must somewhere become complete and round back to a new birth.

Could not the God who ordained the beginning be safely trusted with the end? Forgetting the grey mists of dawn in which the rainbow began, should we deny the inevitable night when the arc bends down at the other end of the world? Having seen so much of the perfect curve, could we not believe in the circle? And should we not remember that the rainbow itself was a signal and a promise that there should be no more sea? Even so, was not this mortal life of ours, tempered as it is by sorrow and tears, a further promise that, when the circle was completed, there should be no more death?

The deep voice went on, even more tenderly, to speak of God; not of His power, but of His purpose, not of His justice, but His forgiveness, not of His vengeance, but of His love. A love so vast and far-reaching that there is no place where it is not; it enfolds not only our little world, poised in infinite space like a mote in a sunbeam, but all the shining, rolling worlds beyond. Every star that rises within our sight and all the million stars beyond, in misty distances so great as to be incomprehensible, are guided and surrounded by this same love. It is impossible to conceive of a place where it is not—even in the midst of pain, poverty, suffering, and death, God's love is there also. The minister pleaded with those who listened to him to lean wholly upon this all-sustaining, all-forgiving love; to believe that it sheltered both the living and the dead, and to trust, simply, as a little child.

In the stillness that followed, Eloise went to the piano. The worn strings answered softly as her fingers touched the keys. In her full, low contralto she sang, to an exquisite melody:

The deep, manly voice followed with a benediction, then the little group of neighbours and friends went out with hushed and reverent step, into the golden Autumn afternoon. Miriam came in, to all outward appearance wholly unmoved. She stood by him for a moment, then turned away.

Eloise closed the door and Roger and Allan brought Barbara in. She bent down to her father, who lay so quietly, with a smile of heavenly peace upon his lips, and her tears rained upon his face. "Good-bye, dear Daddy," she sobbed. "It is Barbara who kisses you now."

When Ambrose North went out of his door for the last time, on his way to rest beside his beloved Constance until God should summon them both, Roger stayed behind, with Barbara. Doctor Conrad had said, positively, that she must not go, and, as always, she obeyed.

The boy's heart was too full for words. He still kept her cold little hand in his. "There isn't anything I can say or do, is there, Barbara, dear?"

"No," she sobbed. "That is the pity of it. There is never anything to be said or done."

"I wish I could take it from you and bear it for you," he said, simply. "Some way, we seem to belong together, you and I."

They sat in silence until the others came back. Eloise came straight to Barbara and put her strong young arms around the frail, bent little figure.

"Will you come with me, dear?" she asked. "We can get a carriage easily and I'd love to have you with me. Will you come?"

For a moment, Barbara hesitated. "No," she said, "I must stay here. I've got to live right on here, and I might as well begin to-night."

Allan took from his pocket several small, round white tablets, and gave them to Barbara. "Two just before going to bed," he said. "And if you're the same brave girl that you've been ever since I've known you, you'll have your bearings again in a short time."

Roger stayed to supper, but none of them made more than a pretence of eating. The odour of tuberoses still pervaded the house and brought, inevitably, the thought of death. Afterward, Barbara sat by the open fire with one hand lying listlessly in Roger's warm, understanding clasp. In the kitchen, Miriam vigorously washed the few dishes. She had put away the fine china, the solid silver knife and fork, the remnant of table damask, and the Satsuma cup.

"Shall I read to you, Barbara?" asked Roger.

"No," she answered, wearily. "I couldn't listen to-night."

The hours dragged on. Miriam sat in the dining-room alone, by the light of one candle, remorsefully, after many years, face to face with herself.

She wondered what Constance would do to her now, when she went to bed and fearfully closed her eyes. She determined to cheat Constance by sitting up all night, and then realised that by doing so she would only postpone the inevitable reckoning.

Miriam felt that a reckoning was due somewhere, on earth, or in heaven, or in hell. Mysterious balances must be made before things were right, and her endeavours to get what she had conceived to be her own just due had all failed.

She wondered why. Constance had wronged her and she was entitled to pay Constance back in her own coin. But the opportunity had been taken out of her hands, every time. Even at the last, her subtle revenge had been transmuted into further glory for Constance. Why?

The answer flashed upon her like words of fire—"Vengeance is mine; I will repay."

Then, suddenly, from some unknown source, the need of confession came pitilessly upon her soul. Her lined face blanched in the candle-light and her worn, nervous hands clutched fearfully at the arm of her chair.

"Confess," she repeated to herself scornfully as though in answer to some imperative summons. "To whom?"

There was no answer, but, in her heart, Miriam knew. Only one of the blood was left and to that one, if possible, payment must be made. And if anything was due her, either from the dead or the living, it must come to her through Barbara.

Miriam laughed shrilly and then bit her lips, thinking the others might hear. Roger heard—and wondered—but said nothing.

After he went home, Barbara still sat by the fire, in that surcease which comes when one is unable to sustain grief longer and it steps aside, to wait a little, before taking a fresh hold. She could wonder now about the letter, in her mother's writing, that she had picked up from the floor, and which her father had found, and very possibly read. She hesitated to ask Miriam anything concerning either her father or her mother.

But, while she sat there, Miriam came into the room, urged by goading impulses without number and one insupportable need. She stood near Barbara for several minutes without speaking; then she began, huskily, "Barbara——"

The girl turned, wearily. "Yes?"

"I've got something to say and I don't know but what to-night is as good a time as any. Neither of us are likely to sleep much."

Barbara did not answer.

"I hated your mother," said Miriam, passionately. "I always hated her."

"I guessed that," answered Barbara, with a sigh.

"Your father was in love with me when she came from school, with her doll-face and pretty ways. She took him away from me. He never looked at me after he saw her. I had to stand by and see it, help her with her pretty clothes, and even be maid of honour at the wedding. It was hard, but I did it.

"She loved him, in a way, but it wasn't much of a way. She liked the fine clothes and the trinkets he gave her, but, after he went blind, she could hardly tolerate him. Lots of times, she would have been downright cruel to him if I hadn't made her do differently.

"The first time they came here for the Summer, she met Laurence Austin, Roger's father, and it was love at first sight on both sides. They used to see each other every day either here or out somewhere. After you were born, the first place she went was down to the shore to meet him. I know, for I followed.

"When your father asked where she was, I lied to him, not only then, but many times. I wasn't screening her—I was shielding him. It went on for over a year, then she took the laudanum. She left four notes—one to me, one to your father, one to you, and one to Laurence Austin. I never delivered that, even though she haunted me almost every night for five years. After he died, she still haunted me, but it was less often, and different.

"When you sent me into your father's room after that letter he had in his pocket, I took time to read it. She said, there, that she didn't trust me, and that I had always loved your father. It was true enough, but I didn't know she knew it.

"After you took the letter out, I put in the one to Laurence Austin. I'd opened it and read it some little time back. I thought it was time he knew her as she was, and I never thought about no name being mentioned in it.

"When he tore off the bandages, he read that letter, and never knew that it wasn't meant for him. Then, when you came in in that old dress of your mother's, he thought it was her come back to him, and never knew any different."

There was a long pause. "Well?" said Barbara, wearily. It did not seem as if anything mattered.

"I just want you to know that I've hated your mother all my life, ever since she came home from school. I've hated you because you look like her. I've hated your father because he talked so of her all the time, and hated myself for loving him. I've hated everybody, but I've done my duty, as far as I know. I've scrubbed and slaved and taken care of you and your father, and done the best I could.

"When I put that letter into his pocket, I intended for him to know that Constance was in love with another man. I'd have read it to him long ago if I'd had any idea he'd believe me. When he thought it was for him, I was just on the verge of telling him different when you came in and stopped me. You looked so much like your mother I thought Constance had taken to walking down here daytimes instead of back and forth in my room at night.

"I suppose," Miriam went on, in a strange tone, "that I've killed him—that there's murder on my hands as well as hate in my heart. I suppose you'll want to make some different arrangements now—you won't want to go on living with me after I've killed your father."

"Aunt Miriam," said Barbara, calmly, "I've known for a long time almost everything you've told me, but I didn't know how father got the letter. I thought he must have found it somewhere in the desk or in his own room, or even in the attic. You didn't kill him any more than I did, by coming into the room in mother's gown. What he really died of was a great, wonderful joy that suddenly broke a heart too weak to hold it. And, even though I've wanted my father to see me, all my life long, I'd rather have had it as it was, and he would, too. I'm sure of that.

"He told me once the three things he most wanted to see in the world were mother's letter, saying that she loved him, then mother herself, and, last of all, me. And for a long time his dearest dream has been that I could walk and he could see. So when, in the space of five or ten minutes, all the dreams came true, his heart failed."

"But," Miriam persisted, "I meant to do him harm." Her burning eyes were keenly fixed upon Barbara's face.

"Sometimes," answered the girl, gently, "I think that right must come from trying to do wrong, to make up for the countless times wrong comes from trying to do right. Father could not have had greater joy, even in heaven, than you and I gave him at the last, neither of us meaning to do it."

The stern barrier that had reared itself between Miriam and her kind suddenly crumbled and fell. Warm tides of human sympathy and love came into her numb heart and ice-bound soul. The lines in her face relaxed, her hands ceased to tremble, and her burning eyes softened with the mist of tears. Her mouth quivered as she said words she had not even dreamed of saying for more than a quarter of a century:

"Will you—can you—forgive me?"

All that she needed from the dead and all they could have given her came generously from Barbara. She sprang to her feet and threw her arms around Miriam's neck. "Oh, Aunty! Aunty!" she cried, "indeed I do, not only for myself, but for father and mother, too. We don't forgive enough, we don't love enough, we're not kind enough, and that's all that's wrong with the world. There isn't time enough for bitterness—the end comes too soon."

Miriam went upstairs, strangely uplifted, strangely at peace. She was no longer alien and apart, but one with the world. She had a sense of universal kinship—almost of brotherhood. That night she slept, for the first time in more than twenty years, without the fear of Constance.

And Constance, who was more sinned against than sinning, and whose faithful old husband had that day lain down, in joy and triumph, to rest beside her in the churchyard, came no more.