The time had passed when she could have delivered it, for the man to whom it was addressed was dead.  But he had survived Constance by nearly five years, and, at any time during those five years, Miriam might have given it to him, unseen and safely.  She justified herself by dwelling upon her care of Barbara and the blind man, and the fact that she would give Barbara her letter upon the appointed day.  Sternly she said to herself:  “I will fulfil one trust.  I will keep faith with Constance in this one way, bitterly though she has wronged me.”

[Sidenote:  Haunting Dreams]

Yet the fulfilment of one trust seemed not to be enough, for her sleep was haunted by the pleading eyes of Constance, asking mutely for some boon.  Until the man died, Constance had come often, with her hands outstretched, craving that which was so little and yet so much.  After his death, Constance still continued to come, but less often and reproachfully; she seemed to ask for nothing now.

Miriam had grown old, but Constance, though sad, was always young.  One of Death’s surpassing gifts is eternal youth to those whom he claims too soon.  In her old husband’s grieving heart, Constance had assumed immortal beauty as well as immortal youth.  She was now no older than Barbara, who still sang heedlessly upstairs.

Every night of the twenty-one years, Miriam had closed her eyes in dread.  When she dreamed it was always of Constance—­Constance laughing or singing, Constance bringing “the light that never was on sea or land” to the fine, grave face of Ambrose North; Constance hugging little lame Barbara to her breast with passionate, infinitely pitying love.  And, above all, Constance in her grave-clothes, dumb, reproachful, her sad eyes fixed on Miriam in pleading that was almost prayer.

“Miriam!  Oh, Miriam!” The blind man in the next room was calling her.  Fearfully, she went back.

“Sit down,” said Ambrose North.  “Sit down near me, where I can touch your hand.  How cold your fingers are!  I want to thank you for all you have done for us—­for my little girl and for me.  You have been so faithful, so watchful, so obedient to her every wish.”

Miriam shrank from him, for the kindly words stung like a lash on flesh already quivering.

[Sidenote:  Miriam and Ambrose]

“We have always been such good friends,” he said, reminiscently.  “Do you remember how much we were together all that year, until Constance came home from school?”

“I have not forgotten,” said Miriam, in a choking whisper.  A surge of passionate hate swept over her even now, against the dead woman whose pretty face had swerved Ambrose North from his old allegiance.

“And I shall not forget,” he answered, kindly.  “I am on the westward slope, Miriam, and have been, for a long time.  But a few more years—­or months—­or days—­as God wills, and I shall join her again, past the sunset, where she waits for me.