The woman who looked back at her daughter seemed strangely youthful.  Barbara felt, in a way, as though she were the mother and Constance the child, for she was older, now, than her mother had been when she died.  The years of helplessness and struggle had aged Barbara, too.

[Sidenote:  A Sweet Face]

The slanting sunbeams of late afternoon came into the attic, but Barbara still studied the sweet face of the picture.  Constance was made for love, and love had come when it was too late.  What tenderness she was capable of; what toilsome journeys she would undertake without fear, if her heart bade her go!  And what courage must have nerved her dimpled hands when she opened the grey, mysterious door of the Unknown!  There was no hint of weakness in the face, but Constance had died rather than to take the chance of betraying the man who held her pledge.  Barbara’s young soul answered in passionate loyalty to the wistfulness, the hunger, and the unspoken appeal.

“He shall never know, Mother, dear,” she said aloud.  “I promise you that he shall never know.”

[Sidenote:  Like her Mother]

The shadows grew longer, and, at length, Barbara put the picture down.  If she had on the gown, and twisted her braids around her head, she would look like her mother even more than now.  She had a fancy to try it—­to go downstairs and see what Aunt Miriam would say when she came in.  Her eyes sparkled with delight when she drew on the long white stockings of finest silk and put on the white slippers with the tarnished silver buckles.

The gown was too long and a little too loose, but Barbara rejoiced in the faded brocade and in the rustle of the silk petticoat that cracked in several places when she put it on, the fabric was so frail.  The ivory-tinted lace set off her shoulders beautifully, but she could only guess at the effect from the brief glimpses the tiny mirror gave her.  She put on the amethyst brooch, hung the fan upon its chain and put it around her neck.  Then she wound her braids around her head and fastened them securely with the gold hairpins.  With the aid of the small-gold mirror, she put the comb in place, and loosened the soft hair on either side, so that it covered the tops of her ears.

She walked back and forth a few times, the full length of the attic, looking back to admire the sweep of her train.  Then she sat down upon the decrepit sofa, trying to fancy herself a stately lady of long ago.  The room was very still, and, without knowing it, Barbara had wearied herself with her unaccustomed exertion.  Her white woollen gown and soft low shoes lay in a little heap on the floor near the window.  She must not forget to take them when she went down to look in the mirror.

Presently, she stretched herself out upon the sofa, wondering, drowsily, whether her mother would have lain down to rest in that splendid brocade.  She did not intend to sleep, but only to rest a little before going downstairs to surprise Aunt Miriam.  Nevertheless, in a few minutes she was fast asleep and dreaming.