openly no more. her occasion badly, most likely she had said more than she had ever meant to say; nevertheless she had acted for the best, and doubtless Martin was sorry within an hour that he had treated her with such harshness.

No doubt she had chosen

He was more than sorry before very long. For one day in early autumn-time the Mother was called, and she lay down and died. Her end was peaceful. Just as the hour struck, she commended Jane and Martin to the care of Him who knoweth and ordereth all things; then she blessed them, and with their hands in hers sank confidently upon sleep. So went out that gentle soul, and Jane and Martin were left alone.

CHAPTER XII

HE Mother's going, timely though it was, left a great void in the little world of Hillside; a void none the less real because of the living presence that lingered in it, and was almost palpable. She was gone; but her presence was there, full and constant, making of the house, so empty else of all save gloom and silence, a very temple of living memories. There she sat, for all that her body had gone, there beyond the table or here beside the lamp, her head bowed over her busy hands, face wrinkled placidly or bright with its ready smile. Hush. Was that her foot sounding upon the stair; was that her voice rising through the silence, soft and cheerfully? Surely did Martin go quietly into the parlour, going as in the old days of marauding boyhood, he would find her in the wicker chair and she would turn to smile him welcome; or, mayhap, she was working in the pantry, or

standing by the bread-tray in the kitchen? It was strange. He knew she had gone; yet there he went stealthily from room to room, expectant almost, searching, you might think, for something he had lost.

Was she lost? Had she really gone? asked Jane of herself, so lonely now with one sorrow the more in her little world. Surely not. Why her face was there . . . and there .. and there. She was gone upon a journey, a little pilgrimage out into the world, from which she must surely return. How think of her as really dead, laid away, gone utterly? Dead? Surely not. Yet what in life was more certain? Out there beyond the hills the Mother lay at peace-close by a narrow mound in shadow of the yews-and of her was left only memories and a name. Ah, but life was woeful, thought Jane, come once more and so soon to clear vision of life's grim tragedy; ah, but death was terrible. Old and young, death claimed all for its own in its own strange time. . . . Yet if God called, even to the young, was it not well? Was it not well?

So, for a while, dark clouds hung heavy over Hillside, and beneath them all went

wearily in a common bond of sorrow; then lifted slowly and drifted away, time compelling them and scattering. Martin ceased his wandering from room to room, learned to forget, grew careless again in his ways and often uncertain. Day after day, this one narrower than that as the path of the sun grew shorter, Jane sought consolation in work; night after night, so long now and lonely, she sat by the lamp, thinking and working, always thinking.

Indeed she had much food for thought; much opportunity to give thought play. She had merely to look back across the months, to catch sight of a little work-basket, to turn eyes upon Martin sitting behind his newspaper or glance at his empty chair; only to look inwards upon herself and thoughts came crowding. How much had happened within a year; what changes come, hopes blighted. Think of last winter, and think of this: as like as day was like night. Ah, could but those old evenings come back again! She recalled them all; lived them one by one. She had but to shut her eyes and there sat the Mother by the table, a white shawl about her shoulders, a lace cap on her hair; there sat Martin, reading

or listening, feet outstretched and smoke rising from his pipe; there sat herself—yes, her very self-knitting before the fire, so happy, so content. See them go, those mellow evenings. The faces, the faces. . . the softened light the voices rising .. the coals falling in the fender, the wind plucking at the shutter, the rain splashing from the spout, a sound of the Mother singing, of Martin laughing, of needles clicking softly as they flashed. Such pleasant evenings, such peace and happiness; all well in the world and the future all bright

And now? Ah, the miles of difference! There was a lifetime between now and then, a whole lifetime of miserable change. She felt years older. When she closed eyes and looked back upon herself, it was almost a stranger she saw; when she opened eyes and looked out of herself, it was into a new world. Nothing was the same; nothing ever again could be the same. Away back there, so far back, were the old bright days; there, down there, lay those miserable months; here and now was the weary present. Ah, it was dreary; and it was very lonely. The days