The sun was shining on the field of poppies and Miss Evelina walked
among them, her face unveiled. Golden masses of bloom were spread at
her feet, starred here and there by stately blossoms as white as the
blown snow. Her ragged garments touched the silken petals, her worn
shoes crushed them, bud and blossom alike. Always, the numbing, sleepy
odour came from the field. Dew was on the petals of the flowers; their
deep cups gathered it and held it, never to be surrendered, since the
dew of the poppies was tears.

Like some evil genius rising from the bottle, the Spirit of the Poppies
seemed to incarnate itself in the vapour. A woman with a face of
deadly white arose to meet Miss Evelina, with outspread arms. In her
eyes was Lethe, in her hands was the gift of forgetfulness. She
brought pardon for all that was past and to come, eternal healing,
unfathomable oblivion. "Come," the drowsy voice seemed to say. "I
have waited long and yet you do not come. The peace that passeth all
understanding is mine to give and yours to take. Come--only come!
Come! Come!"

Miss Evelina laughed bitterly. Never in all the years gone by had the
Spirit of the Poppies pleaded with her thus. Now, at the hour when
surrender meant the complete triumph of her enemy, the ghostly figure
came to offer her the last and supreme gift.

The afterglow yet lingered in the west. The grey of a March twilight
was in the valley, but it was still late afternoon on the summit of the
hill. Miss Evelina drew her veil about her and went out into the
garden, the vial in her hand.

Where was it that she had planted the poppies? Through the mass of