That would be
double-an-tender,--eh, Lukey!"

Marion Kent made a beautiful silk quilt for Ray Ingraham, out of her
sea-green and buff dresses, and had given it to her for a
wedding-present. For the one only time as she did so, she spoke her
heart out upon that which they had both perfectly understood, but
had never alluded to.

"You know, Ray, just as I do, what might have been, and I want you
to know that I'm contented, and there isn't a grudge in my heart.
You and Frank have both been too much to me for that. I can see how
it was, though. It was a hand's turn once. But I went my way and you
kept quietly on. It was the real woman, not the sham one, that he
wanted for a wife. It doesn't trouble me now; it's all right; and
when it might have troubled me, it didn't add a straw's weight. It
fell right off from me. You can't suffer _all through_ with more
than one thing; when you were engaged, I had my load to bear. I knew
I had forfeited everything; what difference did one part make more
than another? It was what I had let go _out of the world_, Ray, that
made the whole world a prison and a punishment. I couldn't have
taken a happiness, if it had come to me. All I wanted was work and
forgiveness."

"Dear Marion, how certainly you must know you are forgiven, by the
spirit that is in you! And for happiness, dear, there is a Forever
that is full of it! I _don't_ think it is any one thing,--not even
any one marrying."

So the two kissed each other, and went down into the other
house--Luclarion's.

That had been only a few days ago, and Ray had shown the quilt, so
rich and lustrous, and delicate with beautiful shellwork
stitchery,--to the young girls this afternoon.

She showed the quilt with loving pride and praise, but the story of
it she kept in her heart, among her prayers. Frank Sunderline never
knew more than the fair fabric and color, and the name of the giver,
told him. Frank Sunderline scarcely knew so much as these two women
did, of the unanalyzed secrets of his own life.

Luclarion waited till all this was over, and Desire Ledwith had
come back from Ray Ingraham's rooms to hers, leaving Hazel and
Sylvie among the fascinations of new crockery and bridal tin pans,
before she said anything about a very sad and important thing she
had to tell her and consult about. She took her into her own little
sitting-room to hear the story, and then up-stairs, to see the woman
of whom the story had to be told.

"It was