above all, Constance in her grave-clothes, dumb, reproachful, her sad
eyes fixed on Miriam in pleading that was almost prayer.

"Miriam! Oh, Miriam!" The blind man in the next room was calling her.
Fearfully, she went back.

"Sit down," said Ambrose North. "Sit down near me, where I can touch
your hand. How cold your fingers are! I want to thank you for all you
have done for us--for my little girl and for me. You have been so
faithful, so watchful, so obedient to her every wish."

Miriam shrank from him, for the kindly words stung like a lash on flesh
already quivering.

[Sidenote: Miriam and Ambrose]

"We have always been such good friends," he said, reminiscently. "Do you
remember how much we were together all that year, until Constance came
home from school?"

"I have not forgotten," said Miriam, in a choking whisper. A surge of
passionate hate swept over her even now, against the dead woman whose
pretty face had swerved Ambrose North from his old allegiance.

"And I shall not forget," he answered, kindly. "I am on the westward
slope, Miriam, and have been, for a long time. But a few more years--or
months--or days--as God wills, and I shall join her again, past the
sunset, where she waits for me.

"I have made things right for you and Barbara. Roger Austin has my