The boy’s heart was too full for words.  He still kept her cold little hand in his.  “There isn’t anything I can say or do, is there, Barbara, dear?”

[Sidenote:  The Pity of It]

“No,” she sobbed.  “That is the pity of it.  There is never anything to be said or done.”

“I wish I could take it from you and bear it for you,” he said, simply.  “Some way, we seem to belong together, you and I.”

They sat in silence until the others came back.  Eloise came straight to Barbara and put her strong young arms around the frail, bent little figure.

“Will you come with me, dear?” she asked.  “We can get a carriage easily and I’d love to have you with me.  Will you come?”

For a moment, Barbara hesitated.  “No,” she said, “I must stay here.  I’ve got to live right on here, and I might as well begin to-night.”

Allan took from his pocket several small, round white tablets, and gave them to Barbara.  “Two just before going to bed,” he said.  “And if you’re the same brave girl that you’ve been ever since I’ve known you, you’ll have your bearings again in a short time.”

[Sidenote:  By the Open Fire]

Roger stayed to supper, but none of them made more than a pretence of eating.  The odour of tuberoses still pervaded the house and brought, inevitably, the thought of death.  Afterward, Barbara sat by the open fire with one hand lying listlessly in Roger’s warm, understanding clasp.  In the kitchen, Miriam vigorously washed the few dishes.  She had put away the fine china, the solid silver knife and fork, the remnant of table damask, and the Satsuma cup.

“Shall I read to you, Barbara?” asked Roger.

“No,” she answered, wearily.  “I couldn’t listen to-night.”

The hours dragged on.  Miriam sat in the dining-room alone, by the light of one candle, remorsefully, after many years, face to face with herself.

She wondered what Constance would do to her now, when she went to bed and fearfully closed her eyes.  She determined to cheat Constance by sitting up all night, and then realised that by doing so she would only postpone the inevitable reckoning.

Miriam felt that a reckoning was due somewhere, on earth, or in heaven, or in hell.  Mysterious balances must be made before things were right, and her endeavours to get what she had conceived to be her own just due had all failed.

She wondered why.  Constance had wronged her and she was entitled to pay Constance back in her own coin.  But the opportunity had been taken out of her hands, every time.  Even at the last, her subtle revenge had been transmuted into further glory for Constance.  Why?

The answer flashed upon her like words of fire—­“Vengeance is mine; I will repay.”

Then, suddenly, from some unknown source, the need of confession came pitilessly upon her soul.  Her lined face blanched in the candle-light and her worn, nervous hands clutched fearfully at the arm of her chair.