“Constance,” she began, huskily, “Constance loved——­”

“I know,” interrupted Ambrose North.  “I know how dearly she loved me up to the very last.  Even Barbara, baby that she was, felt it.  She remembers it still.”

Barbara’s bell tinkled upstairs while he said the last words.  “She wants us,” he said, his face illumined with love.  “If you will prepare her supper, Miriam, I will take it up.”

The room swayed before Miriam’s eyes and her senses were confused.  She had drawn her dagger to strike and it had been forced back into its sheath by some unseen hand.  “But I will,” she repeated to herself again and again as her trembling hands prepared Barbara’s tray.  “He shall know the truth—­and from me.”

* * * * *

“Barbara,” said the old man, as he entered the room, “your Daddy has brought up your supper.”

“I’m glad,” she responded, brightly.  “I’m very hungry.”

“We have been talking downstairs of your mother,” he went on, as he set down the tray.  “Miriam has been telling me how beautiful she was, what winning ways she had, and how dearly she loved us.  She says you do not look at all like her, Barbara, and we both have been thinking that you did.”

[Sidenote:  Disappointed]

Barbara was startled.  Only a few days ago, Aunt Miriam had assured her that she was the living image of her mother.  She was perplexed and disappointed.  Then she reflected that when she had asked the question she had been very ill and Aunt Miriam was trying to answer in a way that pleased her.  She generously forgave the deceit for the sake of the kindly motive behind it.

“Dear Aunt Miriam,” said Barbara, softly.  “How good she has been to us, Daddy.”

“Yes,” he replied; “I do not know what we should have done without her.  I want to do something for her, dear.  Shall we buy her a diamond ring, or some pearls?”

“We’ll see, Daddy.  When I can walk, and you can see, we shall do many things together that we cannot do now.”

The old man bent down very near her.  “Flower of the Dusk,” he whispered, “when may I go?”

“Go where, Daddy?”

“To the city, you know, with Doctor Conrad.  I want to begin to see.”

Barbara patted his hand.  “When I am strong enough to spare you,” she said, “I will let you go.  When you see me, I want to be well and able to go to meet you without crutches.  Will you wait until then?”

“I want to see my baby.  I do not care about the crutches, now that you are to get well.  I want to see you, dear, so very, very much.”

“Some day, Daddy,” she promised him.  “Wait until I’m almost well, won’t you?”

“Just as you say, dear, but it seems so long.”

“I couldn’t spare you now, Daddy.  I want you with me every day.”

* * * * *

[Sidenote:  Miriam’s Prayer]

Though long unused to prayer, Miriam prayed that night, very earnestly, that Ambrose North might not recover his sight; that he might never see the daughter who lived and spoke in the likeness of her dead mother.  It was long past midnight when she fell asleep.  The house had been quiet for several hours.