Aunt Miriam made no comment of any sort.  She did not say she was glad Barbara was well after twenty-two years of helplessness, even though she had taken entire care of her, and must have felt greatly relieved when the burden was lifted.  She went about her work as quietly as ever, and fulfilled all her household duties with mechanical precision.

Spicy odours were wafted through the rooms, for Eloise had ordered enough jelly, sweet pickles, and preserves to supply a large family for two or three years.  She had also bought quilts and rag rugs for all of her old-lady friends and taken the entire stock of candied orange peel for the afternoon teas which she expected to give during the Winter.

Barbara was hard at work upon the dainty lingerie Eloise had planned, and found, by a curious anomaly, that when she did not work so hard, she was able to accomplish more.  The needle flew more swiftly when her fingers did not ache and the stitches blur indistinguishably with the fibre of the fabric.  When Roger was not there to help her, she divided her day, by the clock, into hours of work and quarter-hours of exercise and rest.

She had been out of the gate twice, with Roger, and had walked up and down the road in front of the house, but, as yet, she had not gone beyond the little garden alone.

[Sidenote:  One Dark Cloud]

Upon the fair horizon of the future was one dark cloud of dread which even Doctor Conrad’s positive assurance had mitigated only for a little time.  Barbara knew her father and his stern, uncompromising righteousness.  When the bandages were taken off and he saw the faded walls and dingy furniture, the worn rugs, and the pitiful remnant of damask at his place at the table; when he realised that his daughter had deceived him ever since she could talk at all, he must inevitably despise her, even though he tried to hide it.

Dimly, Barbara began to perceive the intangible price that is attached to the things of the spirit as well as to the material necessities of daily life.  She was forced to surrender his love for her as the compensation for his sight, yet she was firmly resolved to keep, for him, the love that refused to reckon with the barrier of a grave, but triumphantly went past it to clasp the dead Beloved closer still.

[Sidenote:  A Vague Dream]

Of late, she had been thinking much of her mother.  Until Roger had found his father’s letter, and she had received her own, upon her twenty-second birthday, she had felt no sense of loss.  Constance had been a vague dream to her and little more, in spite of her father’s grieving and her instinctive sympathy.

With the letters, however, had come a change.  Barbara felt a certain shadowy relationship and an indefinite bereavement.  She wondered how her mother had looked, what she had worn, and even how she had dressed her hair.  Since her father had gone to the hospital, she had wondered more than ever, but got no satisfaction when she had once asked Aunt Miriam.