copies, and a few specimens of Riverfield's native talent. But she saw
none of them, any more than one sees the windows and the paintings in
a great cathedral in the first fulness of reverence. To her this was a
sacred place. That grief had lost its poignancy, that youth and health
with cruel insistence had reasserted their sway over her life, did not
mean forgetfulness, unfaith.

"Truly, truly,"--she almost breathed the words aloud,--"there has been
no other one. That was my love, young as we were. But I must fill up
the days--I must fill up the days."

* * * * *

Her eyes were fixed unseeingly upon a great canvas at the other end of
the hall. Some Riverfield hand had portrayed a Riverfield
imagination's conception of the moment in the life of Christ when, the
temptations of Satan withstood, angels came to Him upon the mountain.
In the lower distance the kingdoms of the world grew dim beneath the
shadow that fell from the vanquished and retreating tempter, and from
the opening heavens a dazzling cloud of angels streamed toward the
solitary Figure on the height. By and by Millicent's eyes took note of
it. She half smiled. There was daring at least!

Then the picture faded, and again the persistent figure of the child
which had so filled her imagination came before her. But this time it
was toward herself that the rosy face was turned and limpid eyes
lifted in unquestioning dependence. She was the mother; she stood on
the piazza, and by her side he stood, who had been so dear in himself,
so infinitely dearer in the thought of all that should be; toward them
the child came; they were enveloped by breathless love for each other