Roger was in the library, trying to choose, from an embarrassment of riches, the ten of his father's books which he was to be permitted to take to the city with him. With characteristic thoughtfulness, Eloise had busied herself in his behalf immediately upon her return to town. She had found a good opportunity for him, and the letter appointing the time for a personal interview was even then in his pocket.

Neither he nor his mother had the slightest doubt as to the result. Miss Mattie was certain that any lawyer with sense enough to practise law would be only too glad to have Roger in his office. She scornfully dismissed the grieving owner of Fido from her consideration, for it was obvious that anyone with even passable mental equipment would not have been disturbed by the accidental and painless removal of a bull pup.

Roger's ambition and eagerness made him very sure of the outcome of his forthcoming venture. All he asked for was the chance to work, and Eloise was giving him that. How good she had been and how much she had done for Barbara! Roger's heart fairly overflowed with gratitude and he registered a boyish vow not to disappoint those who believed in him.

It seemed strange to think of Eloise as "Mrs. Conrad." She had signed her brief note to Roger, "Very cordially, Eloise Wynne Conrad." Down in the corner she had written "Mrs. Allan Conrad." Roger smiled as he noted the space between the "Wynne" and the "Conrad" in her signature—the surest betrayal of a bride.

"If I should marry," Roger thought, "my wife's name would be 'Mrs. Roger Austin.'" He wrote it out on a scrap of paper to see how it would look. It was certainly very attractive. "And if it were Barbara, for instance, she would sign her letters 'Barbara North Austin.'" He wrote that out, too, and, in the lamplight, appreciatively studied the effect from many different angles. It was really a very beautiful name.

He lost himself in reverie, and it was nearly an hour afterward when he returned to the difficult task of choosing his ten books. Shakespeare, of course—fortunately there was a one-volume edition that came within the letter of the law if not the spirit of it. To this he added Browning. As it happened, there was a complete one-volume edition of this, too. Emerson came next—the Essays in two volumes. That made four. He added Vanity Fair, David Copperfield, a translation of the Æneid, and his beloved Keats. He hesitated a long time over the last two, but finally took down Boswell's Life of Johnson and the Essays of Elia, neither of which he had read.

Behind these two books, which had stood side by side, there was a small, thin book that had either fallen down or been hidden there. Roger took it out and carefully wiped off the dust. It was a blank book in which his father had written on all but the last few pages. He took it over to the table, drew the lamp closer, and sat down.

The gay cover had softened with the years, the pages were yellow, and some of them were blurred by blistering spots. The ink had faded, but the writing was still legible. At the top of the first page was the date, "Evening, June the seventh."

"I have lived long," was written on the next line below, "but a thousand years of living have been centred remorselessly into to-day. I cannot go over, though in this house and in the one across the road it will seem very strange. I knew the clouds of darkness must eternally hide us each from the other, that we must see each other no more save at a great distance, but the thunder and the riving lightning have put heaven between us as well as earth.

"I cannot eat, for food is dust and ashes in my mouth. I cannot drink enough water to moisten my dry, parched throat. I cannot answer when anyone speaks to me, for I do not hear what is said. It does not seem that I shall ever sleep again. Yet God, pitiless and unforgiving, lets me live on."

The remainder of the page was blank. The next entry was dated: "June tenth. Night."

"I had to go. There was no other way. I had to sit and listen. I saw the blind man in the room beyond, sitting beside the dark woman with the hard face. She had the little lame baby in her arms—the baby who is a year or so younger than my own son. I smelled the tuberoses and the great clusters of white lilacs. And I saw her, dead, with her golden braids on either side of her, smiling, in her white casket. When no one was looking, I touched her hand. I called softly, 'Constance.' She did not answer, so I knew she was dead.

"I had to go to the churchyard, with the others. I was compelled to look at the grave and to see the white casket lowered in. I heard that awful fall of earth upon her and a voice saying those terrible words, 'Dust to dust, earth to earth, ashes to ashes.' The blind man sobbed aloud when the earth fell. The dark woman with the hard face did not seem to care. I could have strangled her, but I had to keep my hands still.

"They said that she had not been sleeping and that she took too much laudanum by mistake. It was not a mistake, for she was not of that sort. She did it purposely. She did it because of that one mad hour of full confession. I have killed her. After three years of self-control, it failed me, and I went mad. It was my fault, for if I had not failed, she would not have gone mad, too. I have killed her."

"June fifteenth. Midnight.

"I am calmer now. I can think more clearly. I have been alone in the woods all day and every day since—. I have been thinking, thinking, thinking, and going over everything. She left no word for me; she was so sure I would understand. I do not understand yet, but I shall.

"There was no wrong between us, there never would have been. We were divided by the whole earth, denied by all the leagues of sundering sea. Now we are estranged by all the angels of heaven and all the hosts of hell.

"My arms ache for her—my lips hunger for hers. In that mysterious darkness, does she want me, too? Did her heart cry out for me as mine for her, until the blood of the poppies mingled with hers and brought the white sleep?

"It would have been something to know that we breathed the same air, trod the same highways, listened together to the thrush and robin, and all the winged wayfarers of forest and field. It would have been comfort to know the same sun shone on us both, that the same moon lighted the midnight silences with misty silver, that the same stars burned taper-lights in the vaulted darkness for her and for me.

"But I have not even that. I have nothing, though I have done no wrong beyond holding her in my arms for one little hour. Out of all the time that was before our beginning, out of all the time that shall be after our ending, and in all the unpitying years of our mortal life, we have had one hour."

"June nineteenth.

"I have been to her grave. I have tried to realise that the little mound of earth upon the distant hill, over which the sun and stars sweep endlessly, still shelters her; that, in some way, she is there. But I cannot.

"The mystery agonises me, for I have never had the belief that comforts so many. Why is one belief any better than another when we come face to face with the grey, impenetrable veil that never parts save for a passage? Freed from the bonds of earth, does she still live, somewhere, in perfect peace with no thought of me? Sentient, but invisible, is she here beside me now? Or is she asleep, dreamlessly, abiding in the earth until some archangel shall sound the trumpet bidding all the myriad dead arise? Oh, God, God! Only tell me where she is, that I may go, too!"

"June twenty-first.

"It is true that the path she took is open to me also. I have thought of it many times. I am not afraid to follow where she has led, even into the depths of hell. I have had for several days a vial of the crushed poppies, and the bitter odour, even now, fills my room. Only one thought stays my hand—my little son.

"Should I follow, he must inevitably come to believe that his father was a coward—that he was afraid of life, which is the most craven fear of all. He will see that I have given to him something that I could not bear myself, and will despise me, as people despise a man who shirks his burden and shifts it to the shoulders of one weaker than he.

"When temptation assails him, he will remember that his father yielded. When life looms dark before him and among the fearful shadows there is no hint of light, he will recall that his father was too much of a coward to go into those same shadows, carrying his own light.

"And if his heart is ever filled with an awful agony that requires all his strength to meet it, he will remember that his father failed. I could not rest in my grave if my son, living, should despise me, even though my narrow house was in the same darkness that hides Her."

"July tenth. Dawn.

"This, then, is my punishment. Because for one hour my self-control deserted me, when my man's blood had been crying out for three years for the touch of her—because for one little hour my hungry arms held her close to my aching heart, there is no peace. Nowhere in earth nor in heaven nor in hell is there one moment's forgetfulness. Nowhere in all God's illimitable universe is there pardon and surcease of pain.

"The blind man comes to me and talks of her. He asks me piteously, 'Why?' He calls me his friend. He says that she often spoke of me; that they were glad to have me in their house. He asks me if she ever said one word that would give a reason. Was she unhappy? Was it because he was blind and the little yellow-haired baby with her mother's blue eyes was born lame? I can only say 'No,' and beg him not to talk of it—not even to think of it."

"July twentieth. Night.

"The beauty of the world at midsummer only makes my loneliness more keen. The butterflies flit through the meadows like wandering souls of last year's flowers that died and were buried by the snow. The harvest moon, red-gold and wonderful, will rise slowly up out of the sea. The path of light will lie on the still waters and widen into a vast arc at the line of the shore. Cobwebs will come among the stubble when the harvest is gathered in and on them will lie dewdrops that the moon will make into pearls.

"The gorgeous colouring of Autumn will transfigure the hills with glory, and fill the far silences with misty amethyst and gold. The year-long sleep will come with the first snow, and the stars burn blue and cold in the frosty night. April bugles will wake the violets and anemones, the dead leaves of Autumn will be starred with springtime bloom, May will dance through the world with lilacs and apple blossoms, and I shall be alone.

"I can go to her grave again and see the violets all around it, their exquisite odour made of her dust. I can carry to her the first roses of June, as I used to do, but she cannot take them in her still hands. I can only lay them on that impassable mound, and let the warm rains, as soft as woman's tears, drip down and down and down until the fragrance and my love come to her in the mist.

"But will she care? Is that last sleep so deep that the quiet heart is never stirred by love? When my whole soul goes out to her in an agony of love and pain, is it possible that there is no answer? If there is a God in heaven, it cannot be!"

"October fifth. Night.

"It is said that Time heals everything. I have been waiting to see if it were so. Day by day my loss is greater; day by day my grief becomes more difficult to bear. I read all the time, or pretend to. I sit for hours with the open book before me and never see a line that is printed there. Oh, Love, if I could dream to-night, in the earth with you!"

"October seventh.

"Just four months ago to-day! I was numb, then, with the shock and horror. I could not feel as I do now. When the tide of my heart came in, with agony in every pulse-beat, it rose steadily to the full, without pause, without rest. I think it has reached its flood now, for I cannot endure more. Will there ever be recession?"

"November tenth.

"I am coming, gradually, to have some sort of faith. I do not know why, for I have never had it before. I can see that all things made of earth must perish as the leaves. Passion dies because it is of the earth, but does not love live?

"If only the finer things of the spirit could be bequeathed, like material possessions! All I have to leave my son is a very small income and a few books. I cannot give him endurance, self-control, or the power to withstand temptation. I cannot give him joy. If I could, I should leave him one priceless gift—my love for Constance, to which, for one hour, hers answered fully—I should give him that love with no barrier to divide it from its desire.

"I wonder if Constance would have left hers to her little yellow-haired girl? I wonder if sometimes the joys of the fathers are not visited upon their children as well as their sins?"

"November nineteenth. Night.

"I have come to believe that love never dies for God is love, and He is immortal. My love for Constance has not died and cannot. Why should hers have died? It does not seem that it has, since to-day, for the first time, I have found surcease.

"Constance is dead, but she has left her love to sustain and strengthen me. It streams out from the quiet hillside to-night as never before, and gives me the peace of a benediction. I understand, now, the blinding pain of the last five months. The immortal spirit of love, which can neither die nor grow old, was extricating itself from the earth that clung to it.

"December third.

"At last I have come to perfect peace. I no longer hunger so terribly for the touch of her, for my aching arms to clasp her close, for her lips to quiver beneath mine. The tide has ebbed—there is no more pain.

"I have come, strangely, into kinship with the universe. I have a feeling to-night of brotherhood. I can see that death is no division when a heart is deep enough to hold a grave. The Grey Angel cannot separate her from me, though she took the white poppies from his hands, and gave none to me.

"December eighteenth.

"Constance, Beloved, I feel you near to-night. The wild snows of Winter have blown across your grave, but your love is warm and sweet around my heart. The sorrow is all gone and in its place has come a peace as deep and calm as the sea. I can wait, day by day, until the Grey Angel summons me to join you; until the poppies that stilled your heartbeats, shall, in another way, quiet mine, too.

"I can have faith. I can believe that somewhere beyond the star-filled spaces, when this arc of mortal life merges into the perfect circle of eternity, there will be no barrier between you and me, because, if God is love, love must be God, and He has no limitations.

"I can take up my burden and go on until the road divides, and the Grey Angel leads me down your path. I can be kind. I can try, each day, to put joy into the world that so sorely needs it, and to take nothing away from whatever it holds of happiness now. I can be strong because I have known you, I can have courage because you were brave, I can be true because you were true, I can be tender because I love you.

"At last I understand. It is passion that cries out for continual assurance, for fresh sacrifices, for new proof. Love needs nothing but itself; it asks for nothing but to give itself; it denies nothing, neither barriers nor the grave. Love can wait until life comes to its end, and trust to eternity, because it is of God."

Roger put the little book down and wiped his eyes. He had come upon a man's heart laid bare and was thrilled to the depths by the revelation. He was as one who stands in a holy place, with uncovered head, in the hush that follows prayer.

In the midst of his tenderness for his dead father welled up a passionate loyalty toward the woman who slept in the room adjoining the library, whose soul had "never been welded." She had known life no more than a prattling brook in a meadow may know the sea. Bound in shallows, she knew nothing of the unutterable vastness in which deep answered unto deep; tide and tempest and blue surges were fraught with no meaning for her.

The clock struck twelve and Roger still sat there, with his head resting upon his hand. He read once more his father's wish to bequeath to him his love, "with no barrier to divide it from its desire."

Hedged in by earth and hopelessly put asunder, could it at last come to fulfilment through daughter and son? At the thought his heart swelled with a pure passion all its own—the eager pulse-beats owed nothing to the dead.

He found a sheet of paper and reverently wrapped up the little brown book. An hour later, he slipped under the string a letter of his own, sealed and addressed, and quietly, though afraid that the beating of his heart sounded in the stillness, went out into the night.