She replied in the same quiet voice. "I lost my husband when I was
twenty-two."

"Great Heavens above!" ejaculated Piers. "But you're not--not--I say,
forgive me, I must say it--you can't be as old as that!"

"I am twenty-nine," said Avery faintly smiling.

They had reached the letter-box. She dropped in her letters one by one.
Piers stood confounded, looking on.

Suddenly he spoke. "And you've been doing this mothers'-helping business
for six years?"

"Oh no!" she said.

She turned round from the box and faced him. The red winter sunset glowed
softly upon her. Her grey eyes looked straight into it.

"No!" she said again. "I had my little girl to take care of for the first
six months. You see, she was born blind, soon after her father's death,
and she needed all the care I could give her."

Piers made a sharp movement--a gesture that was almost passionate; but he
said nothing.

Avery withdrew her eyes from the sunset, and looked at him. "She died,"
she said, "and that left me with nothing to do. I have no near
relations. So I just had to set to work to find something to occupy me.