Underneath, written in letters, like, yet so unlike, were the words, “My father died this morning.  F. R.” and an uncertain mark as though he had begun to add “Jr.” to the signature, and realized that there was no need.

The letter fell from her hands.

For a long time she sat silent.

Dead!  She had never felt that he could die while she lived.  A knowledge that he was living,—­loving her, adoring her hopelessly—­was necessary to her life.  She felt that she could not go on without it.  For eighteen years she had compared all other men, all other emotions to him and his love, to find them all wanting.

And he had died.

She looked at the date of the letter.  He would be resting in that tomb she remembered so well, before she could reach the place; that spot before which they had often talked of Death, which had no terrors for either of them.

She rose.  She pushed away her untouched supper, hurriedly drank a glass of wine, and, crossing the hall to her bedroom, opened a tiny box that stood locked upon her dressing table.  She took from it a picture—­a miniature.  It was of a young man not over twenty-five.  The face was strong and full of virile suggestion, even in a picture.  The eyes were brown, the lips under the short mustache were firm, and the thick, short, brown hair fell forward a bit over the left temple.  It was a handsome manly face.

The picture was dated eighteen years before.  It hardly seemed possible that eighteen years earlier this woman could have been old enough to stir the passionate love of such a man.  Her face was still young, her form still slender; her abundant hair shaded deep gray eyes where the spirit of youth still shone.  But she belonged, by temperament and profession, to that race of women who guard their youth marvellously.

There were no tears in her eyes as she sat long into the morning, and, with his pictured face before her, reflected until she had decided.

He had kept his word to her.  His “good bye” had been loyally said.  She would keep hers in turn, and guard his first night’s solitude in the tomb with her watchful prayers.  She calculated well the time.  If she travelled all day Sunday, she would be there sometime before midnight.  If she travelled back at once, she could be in town again in season to play Monday; not in the best of conditions, to be sure, for so hard a role as “Juliet,” but she would have fulfilled a duty that would never come to her again.

* * * * *

It was near midnight, on Sunday.

The light of the big round harvest moon fell through the warm air, which scarcely moved above the graves of the almost forgotten dead in the country churchyard.  The low headstones cast long shadows over the long grass that merely trembled as the noiseless wind moved over it.

A tall woman in a riding dress stood beside the rough sexton at the door of the only large tomb in the enclosure.