NO LEGACIES

The room whirled round the forgotten woman. She turned sick, then cold
to her marrow. She fell limply to the floor, and crouched there with the
newspaper in her hand. After a time she spread it out on the floor and
spelled through the dancing characters in the long column. Her name was
not mentioned. Those thirty years had outweighed the devotion of more
than half a lifetime. It was the old woman's only revenge, and she had
taken it.

No tears came to Miss Williams's relief. She gasped occasionally. "How
could she? how could she? how could she?" her mind reiterated. "What
difference would it have made to her after she was dead? And I--oh
God--what will become of me?" For a time she did not think of
Strowbridge. When she did, it was to see him smiling into the eyes of
Elinor Holt. Her delusion fell from her in that hour of terrible
realities. Had she read of his engagement in the newspaper before her
she would have felt no surprise. She knew now what had brought him back
to California. Many trifles that she had not noted at the time linked
themselves symmetrically together, and the chain bound the two young
people.

"Fool! fool!" she exclaimed. "But no--thank heaven, I had that one
little dream!--the only one in forty-three years!"

The maid tapped at her door and announced dinner. She bade her go away.
She remained on the floor, in the dark, for many hours. The stars were
bright, but the wind lashed the lake, whipped the trees against the
roof. When the night was half done she staggered to her feet. Her limbs
were cramped and numbed. She opened the door and listened. The lights