The older woman looked after her, and smiled
good-humoredly. After a moment she raised her hand,
examining it attentively. Her hand had been very
beautiful in shape, white and dimpled, and she had been
vain enough to wear fine rings. Now it was yellow and
wrinkled. The great emerald looked like a bit of glass
upon it.

"Yes, I see," she said, with a miserable little laugh,
and then stood looking out into the far distance. "But
_I_ am not growing old." She spoke aloud, as if to one
who stood apart with her and could understand.
"Even out in that other world I shall not be only a
mother. I shall be me. ME!" touching her breast.
"After a million of years--it will still be me."

There stirred within the lean body and rheumatic limbs
depths of unused power, of thought, of love and passion,
and, deeper than all, awful possibilities of change.

"I have it in me still to be worse than a
murderer," she thought, with whitening face.

She stood a long time, alone. A strange content and
light came slowly into her face. "Come what will, I
shall never be left to myself again," she said at last,
speaking to a Friend whom she had found long ago.

Then she went in search of the boy. "Come, Jack," she