So the summer swept rapidly on. The remodelled stone mansion was finished at last and daintily furnished to meet every requirement. There were school-rooms and work-rooms and play-rooms. There were parlors and pianos and piazzas. There were long windows and wide doors everywhere. The whole place was filled with sunshine and fresh air. Rare flowers and ferns from the conservatory peeped out from every corner; the polished floors were covered with thick, soft carpets; easy chairs and tempting couches were harmoniously arranged about the rooms. A wing of the basement was converted into a gymnasium with a brave array of dumbbells, Indian clubs, trapezes and ladders. The great house was complete in every detail, and all Martindale was interested in this unique Home which the Lilac Lady was founding. But, though the offers to help were many, the lame girl refused them all and pushed the work with untiring energy.

Lottie had joined the three waifs already in the Palace Beautiful, as the Greenfield girls called it, although its real name was to be Oak Knoll; and one other little orphan maid had slipped in through the open doors. Aunt Pen had been persuaded to take a flying trip to the southern Home which Peace had so enthusiastically described, and returned fired with zeal for the new work which held so many opportunities. Plans were discussed, a Board of Directors elected, the business routine adjusted, and everything legalized in order that there might be no hitch in proceedings after the institution had been opened to the public.

The lame girl developed a surprising business ability, and insisted upon looking after all the details personally, seeming to grow stronger as the work progressed, and she saw her plans nearing completion. Even Aunt Pen was deceived by the delicate flush which tinted the once colorless cheeks, and the keen, alive look in the deep blue eyes; but the girl herself understood, and so hurried carpenters and lawyers alike, until at length everything was done, and Oak Knoll had been formally dedicated and opened for its noble work.

Autumn lingered long that year, cool and calm, as if to make up for the fierce heat of the summer months. But at last the frosts came and tipped every leaf and flower with gorgeous colors; the grass grew brown on the hillside; the brilliant foliage of the trees fluttered down with every breath of wind that stirred; and the crisp, hazy air was filled with the smell of fall. Then, when the chill of winter seemed upon them, the warm days of Indian Summer again held it in check and revived the fading flowers for one last bloom before going to sleep under blankets of ice and snow.

Such a day was it the Sunday following Gail's twentieth birthday; and after dinner had been served, the family repaired to the wide veranda with books and papers to enjoy the freshness of the air and drink in the glories of the autumn afternoon, while they read or talked together, feeling that this was the last time for many weeks that they could sit in this fashion out-of-doors.

But Peace was restless. There was a subtle something in the smell of the hazy atmosphere which appealed to her forcefully, and leaving the family gathered about the President on the piazza, she wandered down the driveway to the great bed of chrysanthemums growing in a sheltered nook where the frosts had not yet found them, and stood gloating over their splendid blossoms.

"Chrysanthemums, chrysanthemums, oh, you dear chrysanthemums," she hummed to herself, then stooped and plucked one long spray, another, a whole armful, and with shining eyes she returned to the porch.

"My, what beauties!" exclaimed Faith, looking up from her book as Peace passed. "Why didn't you leave them in the garden? They look so cheerful growing, now that all the other flowers are gone."

"Hicks is coming after me this afternoon to visit Palace Beautiful, and the Lilac Lady loves chrysanthemums."

She thrust her head deep into her bouquet, and they laughed at the roguish, round face peeping from between the great yellow and white balls. It was indeed a pretty picture, for both flowers and face seemed radiating sunshine.

The chug-chug of an approaching automobile drew their attention to the road, and Allee exclaimed, "There's Hicks now!"

"It's Hicks' machine, but that ain't him driving," answered Peace, studying the car slowing up in front of the gate. "Hicks always comes up the driveway, too. Why, it's Saint John and Elspeth!" They waved their hands at the little group on the porch, and the doctor walked down to the gate to meet the minister, who had leaped to the ground from his place at the wheel.

"Run, get your hat and jacket, Peace," called Mrs. Campbell, as the child started as if to join her friends in the street, so she darted into the house for her wraps, impatient to be off in the throbbing, red car. She was back in a moment, her jacket thrown over one arm and her hat dangling down her back, but as she leaped onto the step beside Elizabeth, she was vaguely conscious that both the preacher and his wife looked strangely exalted, and they greeted her more tenderly and with less boisterous fun than was usual. Indeed, Saint John hugged her so tightly that it hurt, but she could not rebuke him, because he was speaking to the family gathered at the gate, and she caught the words, "Only an hour ago. We have just come from there."

She wondered a little what they were talking about, but before she could ask, the preacher sprang to his place, released the wheel, and the car leaped forward as if alive, toppling Peace into Elizabeth's arms. When she had righted herself, she demanded, "Where is Glen?"

"We left him with Mrs. Lane."

"That's queer. Is he sick?"

"Oh, no, but we thought it best to leave him at the parsonage this time," she answered evasively. "Those are beautiful chrysanthemums you have."

"Ain't they, though? Jud does have the best luck with his asters and chrysanthemums. These beat Hicks' all hollow. Where is Hicks? I 'xpected he'd come for me today. I didn't know Saint John could drive well enough yet."

"Hicks was—busy. So we came."

"I s'pose that's why you left Glen. You didn't want to take the chances with Saint John driving the car. Is that it?"

Elizabeth smiled faintly. "No, we never once thought of that, Peace. Mrs. Lane offered to stay with him, and so we let her."

"Oh! Well, I s'pose I would have too, if I'd been you, 'cause 'tain't often Mrs. Lane makes such an offer," Peace chattered on. "Allee wanted to come today, but grandma said the Lilac Lady had asked for only me, so she wouldn't listen to Allee's going, too, I should like to have had her."

"She can come Tuesday."

"What's going to happen Tuesday?" asked the child, surprised at having so definite a date named. Elizabeth caught her breath sharply, but at that moment the auto drew up in front of the iron gates, and there stood Aunt Pen on the walk waiting for them, smiling her gentle smile of welcome, a little sweeter, perhaps, and infinitely more tender, for, like Moses, she had just come from her Mount of Transfiguration.

Peace spied her first. "How is my Lady, my Lilac Lady?" she cried, springing into her arms and hugging her warmly. "It's been so long since I've seen her! Is she lots better, Aunt Pen?"

"She is perfectly well now, darling," the woman answered, closing her fingers tightly over the little brown hand in her own, and leading the way up the path to the house.

"She's not under the trees, and—"

"It is November, childie. Have you forgotten?" interrupted Elizabeth.

"So it is! Winter is 'most here. But look at the lovely chrysanthemums I've brought her. It isn't too cold for them yet. Won't she be pleased?"

"I am sure she will," smiled Aunt Pen, and involuntarily she lifted her eyes to the clear blue sky above.

The hall, as they entered its dim coolness, was deserted, and though Peace looked inquiringly about her for her small playmates who usually rushed eagerly to meet her, not one was in sight. From the rooms above, however, floated the sweet strains of Giuseppe's violin and the unrestrained, riotous melody of the lame girl's pet canary, and Peace skipped lightly up the wide stairway, eager to greet each member of this happy family.

The door of the invalid's chamber stood open, and beside the window, shaded by the great oak, still hung with autumn colors, lay the beloved form of the Lilac Lady among her silken cushions. She was clad in simple white, with the heavy bronze braids trailing across her shoulders, and the waxen fingers twined in a familiar pose upon her breast. A soft smile wreathed the colorless lips, but the beautiful blue eyes were closed in slumber, and she looked as if she were resting after a hard-fought battle. So lovely a picture did she present that Peace paused on the threshold, and the gay words of greeting bubbling up to her lips died away in a deep breath of awe.

The room was flooded with autumn sunshine and banked with the flowers the invalid loved best; a plate of luscious fruit stood on the table beside the wheel-chair, a late magazine lay open on the floor close by, and Gypsy sang deliriously from his perch in the big bay window. All this Peace saw, and more. The thin fingers clasped a knot of the once-despised, bright-faced pansies, and a single white one nestled in the red-brown waves at the left temple.

"Oh," breathed Peace, scarcely above a whisper, "isn't she beautiful? She got tired of watching and fell asleep while she was waiting for me!"

Softly she tiptoed across the thick carpet and laid her burden of golden chrysanthemums in the arms of the sleeping girl, and once more repeated the words, "She fell asleep while she was waiting for me! My Lilac Lady has fallen asleep!"

"Yes," said Aunt Pen softly. "'He giveth His beloved sleep.'"

THE END