Many years later she heard of Leslie's marriage; then came
news of his death, after a life that had not fulfilled his
dreams for him. Nothing more she had heard or known--nothing
to this day, when she had seen his daughter pass her by
unseeing in the beech hollow.

"His daughter! And she might have been MY daughter,"
murmured the Old Lady. "Oh, if I could only know her and love
her--and perhaps win her love in return! But I cannot. I could
not have Leslie Gray's daughter know how poor I am--how low I
have been brought. I could not bear that. And to think she is
living so near me, the darling--just up the lane and over the
hill. I can see her go by every day--I can have that dear
pleasure, at least. But oh, if I could only do something for
her--give her some little pleasure! It would be such a
delight."

When the Old Lady happened to go into her spare room that
evening, she saw from it a light shining through a gap in the
trees on the hill. She knew that it shone from the Spencers'
spare room. So it was Sylvia's light. The Old Lady stood in
the darkness and watched it until it went out--watched it with
a great sweetness breathing in her heart, such as risen from
old rose-leaves when they are stirred. She fancied Sylvia
moving about her room, brushing and braiding her long,
glistening hair--laying aside her little trinkets and girlish
adornments--making her simple preparations for sleep. When the
light went out the Old Lady pictured a slight white figure
kneeling by the window in the soft starshine, and the Old Lady
knelt down then and there and said her own prayers in