“Constance, darling,” he gasped, feebly, “where is our baby?  I want Barbara.”

For the sake of the dead and the living, Barbara supremely put self aside.  “I do not know,” she whispered, “just where Barbara is.  Am I not enough?”

“Enough for earth,” he breathed in answer, “and—­for—­heaven—­too.  Kiss me—­Constance—­just once—­dear—­before——­”

[Sidenote:  The Passing]

Barbara bent down.  He lifted his shaking hands caressingly to the splendid crown of golden hair, the smooth, fair cheeks, the perfect neck and shoulders, and died, enraptured, with her kiss upon his lips.

XX

Pardon

[Sidenote:  The Burial Service]

Crushed and almost broken-hearted, Barbara sat in the dining-room.  The air was heavy with the overpowering scent of tuberoses.  From the room beyond came the solemn words of the burial service:  “I am the resurrection and the life.  He that believeth on me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.”

The words beat unbearably upon her ears.  The walls of the room moved as though they were of fabric, stirred by winds of hell.  The floor undulated beneath her feet and black mists blinded her.  Her hands were so cold that she scarcely felt the friendly, human touch on either side of her chair.

Roger held one of her cold little hands in both his own, yearning to share her grief, to divide it in some way; even to bear it for her.  On the other side was Doctor Conrad, profoundly moved.  His science had not yet obliterated his human instincts and he was neither ashamed of the mist in his eyes nor of the painful throbbing of his heart.  His fingers were upon Barbara’s pulse, where the lifetide moved so slowly that he could barely feel it.

On the other side of the room, alien and apart, as always, sat Miriam.  She wore her best black gown, but her face was inscrutable.  Perhaps the lines were more sharply cut, perhaps the rough, red hands moved more nervously than usual, and perhaps the deep-set black eyes burned more fiercely, but no one noticed—­or cared.

[Sidenote:  The Minister]

The deep voice in the room beyond was vibrant with tenderness.  The man who stood near Ambrose North as he lay in his last sleep had been summoned from town by Eloise.  He did not make the occasion an excuse for presenting his own particular doctrine, bolstered up by argument, nor did he bid his hearers rejoice and be glad.  He admitted, at the beginning, that sorrow lay heavily upon the hearts of those who loved Ambrose North and did not say that God was chastening them for their own good.

He spoke of Life as the rainbow that brilliantly spans two mysterious silences, one of which is dawn and the other sunset.  This flaming arc must end, as it begins, in pain, but, past the silence, and, perhaps, in even greater mystery, the circle must somewhere become complete and round back to a new birth.