Miss Phoebe is as good as gold, but something of a man-hater. She
doesn't think much of the sex in general, but she is a good friend
of mine, and she'll be good to you for my sake. Miss Vesta"--the
young doctor, who was observant, noted a slight change in his hearty
voice--"Vesta Blyth is a saint."

"What kind of saint? invalid? bedridden? blind?"

"No, no, no! saints don't all have to be bedridden. Vesta is a--you
might call her Saint Placidia. Her life has been shadowed. She was
once engaged--to a very worthy young man--thirty years ago. The day
before the wedding he was drowned; sailboat capsized in a squall,
just in the bay here. Since then she keeps a light burning in the
back hall, looking over the water. That's why I call the house the
Temple of Vesta."

"Day and night?"

"No, no! lights it at sunset every evening regularly. Sun dips,
Vesta lights her lamp. Pretty? I think so."

"Affecting, certainly!" said the young doctor. "And she has mourned
her lover ever since?"

The old doctor gave him a quaint look. "People don't mourn thirty
years," he said, "unless their minds are diseased. Women mourn
longer than men, of course, but ten years would be a long limit,
even for a woman. Memory, of course, may last as long as life--sacred
and tender memory,"--his voice dropped a little, and he passed his
hand across his forehead,--"but not mourning. Vesta is a little