with her an occasional afternoon or evening."

Margaret sprang to her feet and walked twice the length of the room.

"But I've--lied so much already!" she moaned, pausing before her sister.
"It's all a lie--my whole life!"

"Yes, yes, I know," murmured the other, with a hurried glance toward the
bedroom door. "But, Meg, we mustn't give up--'twould kill her to know
now. And, after all, it's only a little while!--such a little while!"

Her voice broke with a half-stifled sob. The younger girl shivered, but
did not speak. She walked again the length of the room and back; then
she sat down to her work, her lips a tense line of determination, and
her thoughts delving into the few past years for a strength that might
help her to bear the burden of the days to come.

* * * * *

Ten years before, and one week after James Whitmore's death, Mrs. James
Whitmore had been thrown from her carriage, striking on her head and
back.

When she came to consciousness, hours afterward, she opened her eyes on
midnight darkness, though the room was flooded with sunlight. The optic
nerve had been injured, the doctor said. It was doubtful if she would
ever be able to see again.

Nor was this all. There were breaks and bruises, and a bad injury to the
spine. It was doubtful if she would ever walk again. To the little woman