Love was abroad in the world that day.  Bees hummed it, birds sang it, roses breathed it.  The black and gold messengers of the fields bore velvety pollen from flower to flower, moving lazily on shimmering, gossamer wings.  A meadow-lark rose from a distant clover field, dropping exquisite, silvery notes as he flew.  The scent of green fields and honeysuckles came in at the open window, mingled inextricably with the croon of the bees, but Miss Mehitable knew only that it was Summer, that the world was young, but she was old and alone and would be alone for the rest of her life.

She leaned forward to look at the picture, and Anthony Dexter smiled back at her, boyish, frank, eager, lovable.  A tear dropped on the pictured face—­not the first one, for the photograph was blistered oddly here and there.

“I’ve done all I could,” said Miss Mehitable to herself, as she wrapped it up again in its many yellowed folds of muslin.  “I thought Minty would be happier so, but maybe, after all, God knows best.”

XXV

Redeemed

Miss Evelina sat alone, in her house, at peace with Anthony Dexter and with all the world.  The surging flood of forgiveness and compassion which had swept over her as she gazed at his dead face, had broken down all barriers, abrogated all reserves.  She saw that Piper Tom was right; had she forgiven him, she would have been free long ago.

She shrank no longer from her kind, but yearned, instead, for friendly companionship.  Once she had taken off her veil and started down the road to Miss Mehitable’s, but the habit of the years was strong upon her, and she turned back, affrighted, when she came within sight of the house.

Since she left the hospital, no human being had seen her face, save Anthony Dexter and his son.  She had crept, nun-like, into the shelter of her chiffon, dimly taking note of a world which could not, in turn, look upon her.  She clung to it still, yet perceived that it was a lie.

She studied herself in the mirror, no longer hating the sight of her own face.  She was not now blind to her own beauty, nor did she fail to see that transfiguring touch of sorrow and peace.  These two are sculptors, one working both from within and without, and the other only from within.

Why should she not put her veil forever away from her now?  Why should she not meet the world face to face, as frankly as the world met her?  Why should she delay?

She had questioned herself continually, but found no answer.  Since she came back to her old home, she had been mysteriously led.  Perhaps she was to be led further through the deep mazes of life—­it was not only possible, but probable.

“I’ll wait,” she said to herself, “for a sign.”

She had not seen the Piper since the day they met so strangely, with Anthony Dexter lying dead between them.  Quite often, however, she had heard the flute, usually at sunrise or sunset, afar off in the hills.  Once, at the hour of the turning night, the melody had come to her on the first grey winds of dawn.