The time had passed when she could have delivered it, for the man to
whom it was addressed was dead. But he had survived Constance by nearly
five years, and, at any time during those five years, Miriam might have
given it to him, unseen and safely. She justified herself by dwelling
upon her care of Barbara and the blind man, and the fact that she would
give Barbara her letter upon the appointed day. Sternly she said to
herself: "I will fulfil one trust. I will keep faith with Constance in
this one way, bitterly though she has wronged me."

[Sidenote: Haunting Dreams]

Yet the fulfilment of one trust seemed not to be enough, for her sleep
was haunted by the pleading eyes of Constance, asking mutely for some
boon. Until the man died, Constance had come often, with her hands
outstretched, craving that which was so little and yet so much. After
his death, Constance still continued to come, but less often and
reproachfully; she seemed to ask for nothing now.

Miriam had grown old, but Constance, though sad, was always young. One
of Death's surpassing gifts is eternal youth to those whom he claims too
soon. In her old husband's grieving heart, Constance had assumed
immortal beauty as well as immortal youth. She was now no older than
Barbara, who still sang heedlessly upstairs.

Every night of the twenty-one years, Miriam had closed her eyes in
dread. When she dreamed it was always of Constance--Constance laughing
or singing, Constance bringing "the light that never was on sea or land"
to the fine, grave face of Ambrose North; Constance hugging little lame
Barbara to her breast with passionate, infinitely pitying love. And,