back of the chair, and a low rocker, facing it, was swerved sharply
aside. The evidence of daily occupation, suddenly interrupted, was all
there--a quiet content, overlaid by a dumb, creeping paralysis.

The March wind blew fiercely through the night and the little house
leaned yet more toward the sheltering hill. Afar, in the village, a
train rumbled into the station; the midnight train from the city by
which the people of Rushton regulated their watches and clocks.
Strangely enough, it stopped, and more than one good man, turning
uneasily upon his pillow, wondered if the world might have come to its
end.

Half an hour afterward, a lone figure ascended the steep road which led
to the house. A woman, fearless of the night, because Life had already
done its worst to her, stumbled up the stony, overgrown way. The moon
shone fitfully among the flying clouds, and she guided herself by its
uncertain gleams, pausing now and then, in complete darkness, to wait
for more light.

Ghost-like, a long white chiffon veil trailed behind her, too securely
fastened to her hat to be blown away. Even in the night, she watched
furtively and listened for approaching footsteps, one hand holding the
end of her veil in such a way that she might quickly hide her face.

Outside the gate she paused, irresolute. At the last moment, it seemed
as if she could never enter the house again. A light snow had fallen
upon the dead garden, covering its scarred face with white. Miss
Evelina noted quickly that her garden, too, was hidden as by chiffon.

A gust of wind made her shiver--or was it the veiled garden? Nerving