undergrowth and brambles, she made scant headway. Thorns pressed
forward rudely as if to stab the intruder. Vines, closely matted,
forbade her to pass, yet she kept on until she reached the western
slope of the garden.

Here, unshaded, and in the full blaze of the Summer sun, the poppies
had spread their brilliant pageantry. In all the village there had
been no such poppies as grew in Evelina's garden. Now they were dead
and only the overgrown stubble was left.

"Dust to dust, earth to earth, and ashes to ashes." The solemn words
of the burial service were chanted in her consciousness as she lifted
the vial high and emptied it. She held it steadily until the last drop
was drained from it. The poppies had given it and to the poppies she
had returned it. She put the cork into the empty vial and flung it far
away from her, then turned back to the house.

There was a sound of wheels upon the road. Miss Evelina hastened her
steps, but the dense undergrowth made walking difficult. Praying that
she might not be seen, she turned her head.

Anthony Dexter, in the doctor's carriage, was travelling at a leisurely
pace. As he passed the old house, he glanced at it mechanically, from
sheer force of habit. Long ago, it had ceased to have any definite
meaning for him. Once he had even stripped every white rose from the
neglected bush at the gate, to take to his wife, who, that day, for the
first time, had held their son in her arms.

Motionless in the wreck of the garden, a veiled figure stood with
averted face. Doctor Dexter looked keenly for an instant in the fast