There was a long pause. "Twenty-one years," he said, in a shrill
whisper. "Twenty-one years ago to-day."

[Sidenote: A Dreadful Anniversary]

Miriam sat down quietly on the other side of the room. Her eyes were
glittering and she was moving her hands nervously. This dreadful
anniversary had, for her, its own particular significance. Upstairs,
Barbara, light-hearted and hopeful, was singing to herself while she
pinned on the last of the price tags and built her air-castle. The song
came down lightly, yet discordantly. It was as though a waltz should be
played at an open grave.

"Miriam," cried Ambrose North, passionately, "why did she kill herself?
In God's name, tell me why!"

"I do not know," murmured Miriam. He had asked her more than fifty
times, and she always gave the same answer.

"But you must know--someone must know! A woman does not die by her own
hand without having a reason! She was well and strong, loved, taken care
of and petted, she had all that the world could give her, and hosts of
friends. I was blind and Barbara was lame, but she loved us none the
less. If I only knew why!" he cried, miserably; "Oh, if I only knew
why!"

Miriam, unable to bear more, went out of the room. She pressed her cold
hands to her throbbing temples. "I shall go mad," she muttered. "How
long, O Lord, how long!"