answered. Here, Lucy"--she turned to the child--"run up with this."

"Lucy?" Calvin Stammark asked when they were alone.

"Been here two weeks," Mrs. Braley told him. "What will become of her's
beyond me. She is Hannah's daughter, and Hannah is dead."

There was a sharp constriction of Calvin's heart. Hannah's daughter,
and Hannah was dead!

"As far as I know," the other continued in a strained metallic voice,
"the child's got no father you could fix. Her mother wrote the name was
Lucy Vibard, and she'd called her after me. But when I asked her she
didn't seem to know anything about it.

"Hannah was alone and dog poor when she died, that's certain. Like
everything else I can lay mind on she came to a bad end--Lord reckons
where Phebe is. I always thought you were weak fingered to let Hannah
go--with that house built and all. I suppose maybe you weren't, though;
well out of a slack bargain."

Calvin Stammark scarcely heard her; his being was possessed by the
pitiable image of Hannah dying alone and dog poor. He had always
pictured her--except in the fleet vision of debasement--as young and
graceful and disturbing. Without further speech he left the kitchen and
crossed the house to the shut parlor. It was screened against the day,
dim and musty and damp. The orange plush of the chairs and the narrow
uncomfortable sofa, carefully dusted, was as bright as it had been when
he had last seen it--was it ten years ago?