"The seventh--the seventh of June."

"Twenty-one years ago to-day," he said, with an effort, "your dear
mother took her own life." The last words were almost inaudible.

Barbara went to him and put her soft arms around his neck. "Daddy!" she
whispered, with infinite sympathy, "Daddy!"

He patted her arm gently, unable to speak. She said no more, but the
voice and the touch brought healing to his pain. Bone of her bone and
flesh of her flesh, the daughter of the dead Constance was thrilled
unspeakably with a tenderness that the other had never given him.

"Sit down, my dear," said Ambrose North, slowly releasing her. "I want
to talk to you--of her. Did I hear Aunt Miriam go out?"

"Yes, just a few minutes ago."

"You are almost twenty-two, are you not, Barbara?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Then you are a woman grown. Your dear mother was twenty-two, when--" He
choked on the words.

"When she died," whispered Barbara, her eyes luminous with tears.

[Sidenote: A Torturing Doubt]

[Sidenote: A Change]