[Sidenote:  A Dreadful Anniversary]

Miriam sat down quietly on the other side of the room.  Her eyes were glittering and she was moving her hands nervously.  This dreadful anniversary had, for her, its own particular significance.  Upstairs, Barbara, light-hearted and hopeful, was singing to herself while she pinned on the last of the price tags and built her air-castle.  The song came down lightly, yet discordantly.  It was as though a waltz should be played at an open grave.

“Miriam,” cried Ambrose North, passionately, “why did she kill herself?  In God’s name, tell me why!”

“I do not know,” murmured Miriam.  He had asked her more than fifty times, and she always gave the same answer.

“But you must know—­someone must know!  A woman does not die by her own hand without having a reason!  She was well and strong, loved, taken care of and petted, she had all that the world could give her, and hosts of friends.  I was blind and Barbara was lame, but she loved us none the less.  If I only knew why!” he cried, miserably; “Oh, if I only knew why!”

Miriam, unable to bear more, went out of the room.  She pressed her cold hands to her throbbing temples.  “I shall go mad,” she muttered.  “How long, O Lord, how long!”

[Sidenote:  Constance North]

Twenty-one years ago to-day, Constance North had, intentionally, taken an overdose of laudanum.  She had left a note to her husband begging him to forgive her, and thanking him for all his kindness to her during the three years they had lived together.  She had also written a note to Miriam, asking her to look after the blind man and to be a mother to Barbara.  Enclosed were two other letters, sealed with wax.  One was addressed “To My Daughter, Barbara.  To be opened on her twenty-second birthday.”  Miriam had both the letters safely put away.  It was not time for Barbara to have hers and she had never delivered the other to the person to whom it was addressed—­so often does the arrogant power of the living deny the holiest wishes of the dead.

The whole scene came vividly back to Miriam—­the late afternoon sun streaming in glory from the far hills into Constance North’s dainty sitting-room, upstairs; the golden-haired woman, in the full splendour of her youth and beauty, lying upon the couch asleep, with a smile of heavenly peace upon her lips; the blind man’s hands straying over her as she lay there, with his tears falling upon her face, and blue-eyed Barbara, cooing and laughing in her own little bed in the next room.

[Sidenote:  Years of Torture]

Miriam had found the notes on the dressing-table, and had lied.  She had said there were but two when, in reality, there were four.  Two had been read and destroyed; the other two, with unbroken seals, were waiting to be read.  She was keeping the one for Barbara; the other had tortured her through all of the twenty years.