[Sidenote:  Kindly Shadows]

The firelight made kindly shadows in the room, softening the unloveliness and lending such beauty as it might.  It gave to Ambrose North’s fine, strong face the delicacy and dignity of an old miniature.  It transfigured Barbara’s yellow hair into a crown of gold, and put a new gentleness into Miriam’s lined face as she sat in the half-light, one of them in blood, yet singularly alien and apart.

“What are you doing, Barbara?” The sensitive hands strayed to her lap and lifted the sheer bit of linen upon which she was working.

“Making lingerie by hand.”

“You have a great deal of it, haven’t you?”

“Not as much as you think, perhaps.  It takes a long time to do it well.”

“It seems to me you are always sewing.”

“Girls are very vain these days, Father.  We need a great many pretty things.”

“Your dear mother used to sew a great deal.  She—­” His voice broke, for even after many years his grief was keenly alive.

“Is supper ready, Aunt Miriam?” asked Barbara, quickly.

“Yes.”

“Then come, let’s go in.”

Ambrose North took his place at the head of the table, which, purposely, was nearest the door.  Barbara and Miriam sat together, at the other end.

“Where were you to-day, Father?”

[Sidenote:  At the top of the World]

“On the summit of the highest hill, almost at the top of the world.  I think I heard a robin, but I am not sure.  I smelled Spring in the maple branches and the cedar, and felt it in the salt mist that blew up from the sea.  The Winter has been so long!”

“Did you make a song?”

[Sidenote:  Always Make a Song]

“Yes—­two.  I’ll tell you about them afterward.  Always make a song, Barbara, no matter what comes.”

So the two talked, while the other woman watched them furtively.  Her face was that of one who has lived much in a short space of time and her dark, burning eyes betrayed tragic depths of feeling.  Her black hair, slightly tinged with grey, was brushed straight back from her wrinkled forehead.  Her shoulders were stooped and her hands rough from hard work.

She was the older sister of Ambrose North’s dead wife—­the woman he had so devotedly loved.  Ever since her sister’s death, she had lived with them, taking care of little lame Barbara, now grown into beautiful womanhood, except for the crutches.  After his blindness, Ambrose North had lost his wife, and then, by slow degrees, his fortune.  Mercifully, a long illness had made him forget a great deal.

“Never mind, Barbara,” said Miriam, in a low tone, as they rose from the table.  “It will make your hands too rough for the sewing.”

“Shan’t I wipe the dishes for you, Aunty?  I’d just as soon.”

“No—­go with him.”

The fire had gone down, but the room was warm, so Barbara turned up the light and began again on her endless stitching.  Her father’s hands sought hers.