She looked at the date of the letter. He would be resting in that tomb
she remembered so well, before she could reach the place; that spot
before which they had often talked of Death, which had no terrors for
either of them.

She rose. She pushed away her untouched supper, hurriedly drank a
glass of wine, and, crossing the hall to her bedroom, opened a tiny
box that stood locked upon her dressing table. She took from it a
picture--a miniature. It was of a young man not over twenty-five. The
face was strong and full of virile suggestion, even in a picture. The
eyes were brown, the lips under the short mustache were firm, and the
thick, short, brown hair fell forward a bit over the left temple. It
was a handsome manly face.

The picture was dated eighteen years before. It hardly seemed possible
that eighteen years earlier this woman could have been old enough to
stir the passionate love of such a man. Her face was still young, her
form still slender; her abundant hair shaded deep gray eyes where the
spirit of youth still shone. But she belonged, by temperament and
profession, to that race of women who guard their youth marvellously.

There were no tears in her eyes as she sat long into the morning,
and, with his pictured face before her, reflected until she had
decided.

He had kept his word to her. His "good bye" had been loyally said. She
would keep hers in turn, and guard his first night's solitude in the
tomb with her watchful prayers. She calculated well the time. If she
travelled all day Sunday, she would be there sometime before midnight.