* * * * *

He was still standing before it when she returned with her son. He turned
slowly to confront them, holding out his hand to Latimer with something
less of alert and sympathetic readiness than was usual with him. There
was in his manner an element which corresponded with the lack of colour
and warmth in his face.

"I've been looking at this portrait of your--of----" he began.

"Of Margery," put in the little mother. "Everyone looks at Margery when
they come in. It seems as if the child somehow filled the room." And
though her soft voice had a sigh in it, she did not speak in entire
sadness.

John Baird looked at the picture again. It was the portrait of a slight
small girl with wistful eyes and an innocent face.

"I felt sure that it was she," he said in a lowered voice, "and you are
quite right in saying that she seems to fill the room."

The mother put her hand upon her son's arm. He had turned his face
towards the window. It seemed to Baird that her light touch was at once
an appeal and a consolation.

"She filled the whole house when she was here," she said; "and yet she
was only a quiet little thing. She had a bright way with her quietness
and was so happy and busy. It is my comfort now to remember that she was
always happy--happy to the last, Lucien tells me."

She looked up at her son's averted face as if expecting him to speak, and
he responded at once, though in his usual mechanical way.

"To the last," he said; "she had no fear and suffered no pain."

The little woman watched him with tender, wistful eyes; two large tears
welled up and slipped down her cheeks, but she smiled softly as they
fell.

"She had so wanted to go to Italy," she said; "and was so happy to be
there. And at the last it was such a lovely day, and she enjoyed it so
and was propped up on a sofa near the window, and looked out at the blue
sky and the mountains, and made a little sketch. Tell him, Lucien," and
she touched his arm again.

"I shall be glad to hear," said Baird, "but you must not tire yourself by
standing," and he took her hand gently and led her to a chair and sat
down beside her, still holding her hand.

But Latimer remained standing, resting his elbow upon the mantel and
looking down at the floor as he spoke.

"She was not well in England," the little mother put in, "but in Italy he
thought she was better even to the very last."

"She was weak," Latimer went on, without