very young."

"Edith--when was it?"

"Seven years ago."

Anne pondered. The seven years helped to purify him. Every day helped
that threw the horror further back in time--separated it from her. If--if
he had not been steeped too long in it. She wanted to know _how_ long,
but she was afraid to ask; afraid lest it should be brought nearer to her
than she could bear. Edith saw her fear.

"It lasted two years. It was all my fault."

"Your fault?"

"Yes, my fault. Because of my horrid spine. You see, it kept him from
marrying."

"Well, but--"

"Well, but it couldn't have happened if he had married. How _could_ it?
How could it have happened if you had been there? You would have saved
him."

She paused on that note, a long, illuminating pause. The note itself was
a divine inspiration. It rang all golden. It thrilled to the verge of the
dominant chord in Anne. It touched her soul, the mother of brooding,
mystic harmonies.