of his affectionately. "No, my--my dear," she said. "It does not hurt--
now. There is no pain now, only memory; blessed, blessed memory. He--
there is something--you remind me of him a little, Doctor Geoffrey."

They stood silent, the young man and the old woman, hand in hand in
the soft evening. The splendour in the west died out, and soft
clouds of gray and purple brooded like wings over the sea. The water
deepened from gold to glimmering gray, from gray to deep brown and
blue. In one spot a faint glimmer trembled on the waves; the light
from Miss Vesta's lamp. The little lady gazed at it long, then
looked up into the strong young face above her.

"He was--your age!" she said, hurrying the words out in a low murmur,
hardly louder than the night breeze in the tall lilac-trees.
"He was bright and strong and gay like you; his sun went down while
it was yet day. The Lord took him into his holy keeping. I wish--I
wish you all the joy I should have tried to give him, Doctor Geoffrey.
I wish your life fortunate and brave, and your love happy; more than
all, your love happy."

She pressed his hand, and went quietly away; came back for a moment
to pat his arm and say she trusted she had not distressed him, and
beg him not to stay out too long in the night air; then went into
the house, closing the door softly after her.

Left alone, Geoffrey Strong fell to his pacing again, up and down
the neat gravel paths with their tall box hedges. His face was very
tender; looking at it, one might know he had been a loving son to
his mother. But presently he frowned over his cigar, and then laughed,
and went and shook the unoffending moth (it was a rare one, if he