any case, I shall not
trouble you long. It is my lungs, they tell me. It is a curious
sensation, may you never know it, having your furniture seized. Le bon
Dieu and Celeste have stood between me and much."

Celeste! Tall, gaunt, and taciturn--negro mammy to Alexina and to
Molly before her. Celeste! It all stifled the girl. She hated Celeste.
Celeste had chosen to go with the mother, and the child had been left
by both.

And where was M. Garnier, the husband--"the promising young French
poet," as Uncle Randolph had termed him to some one, in the child
Alexina's hearing, those years ago? The letter made no mention of him.

Alexina closed the Infirmary gate and walked up the wide pavement to
the entrance. The little Sister knew her well now and smiled a welcome
as she let her in. Passing along the hall Alexina hesitated before the
marble saint in his niche. Hers was no controversial soul; what she
wanted was comfort. Perhaps the blend of Presbyterianism and
Catholicism may be tolerance. Then she went on through the spotless
halls to the second floor.

As the door opened Harriet looked around. She had been writing by the
Major's couch, and he had fallen asleep, his hand on hers, the
portfolio lying open on her lap. She smiled at Alexina, then nodded at
the hand detaining her.

Could it be the same Aunt Harriet, this yearning-eyed woman? Her
hair, always beautiful, had loosened and drooped over her temple, and
the thought swept upon Alexina, how human, how sweetly dear it made
her look, this touch of carelessness because of greater concern. It
moved the girl, bending to kiss her, to slip to her knees instead and
throw adoring young arms about her.

And then a strange thing happened; the head of the woman drooped for
support against the girl's shoulder and, with a sudden trembling all
through her, Harriet began to cry. Only for a moment; then, lifting
her head and putting the hand of the sleeper gently on the couch, she
arose and drew the girl over to the window.

"You go to-morrow?" asked Alexina.

"Yes; Dr. Ransome has arranged to go with us then. I don't know why I
cry, for he's better. He's been dictating an editorial. I'm unnerved,
I suppose, and it's beginning to tell."

"You are worn out with the two months of strain, Aunt Harriet, and the
worry and unhappiness."

"Unhappiness?" Harriet laughed a little wildly. "Unhappiness? I
thought you understood better than that. I'm happy, for the first time
in all