ll me the truth."

But they were the same words that Aunt Rachel repeated: "He died on the
eve of his wedding; they took away my wedding garments...." From her lips
a lie could hardly issue. The gipsy's face became grave....

She broke another long silence.

"I believe," she said at last. "It is a new kind--but no more wonderful
than the other. The other I have seen, now I have seen this also. Tell
me, does it come to any other chair?"

"It was his chair; he died in it," said Aunt Rachel.

"And you--shall you die in it?"

"As God wills."

"Has ... _other life_ ... visited it long?"

"Many years; but it is always small; it never grows."

"To their mothers babes never grow. They remain ever babes.... None other
has ever seen it?"

"Except yourself, none. I sit here; presently it creeps into my arms; it
is small and warm; I rock, and then... it goes."

"Would it come to another chair?"

"I cannot tell. I think not. It was his chair."

Annabel mused. At the other end of the room Flora was now bestowed on
Jack, the disreputable sailor. The gipsy's eyes rested on the bridal
party....

"Yet another might see it--"

"None has."

"No; but yet.... The door does not always shut behind us suddenly.
Perhaps one who has toddled but a step or two over the threshold might,
by looking back, catch a glimpse.... What is the name of the smallest
one?"

"Angela."

"That means 'angel'... Look, the doll who died yesterday is now being
married.... It may be that Life has not yet sealed the little one's eyes.
Will you let Annabel ask her if she sees what it is you hold in your
arms?"

Again the voice was soft and wheedling....

"No, Annabel," said Aunt Rachel faintly.

"Will you rock again?"

Aunt Rachel made no reply.

"Rock..." urged the cajoling voice.

But Aunt Rachel only turned the betrothal ring on her finger. Over at the
altar Jack was leering at his new-made bride, past decency; and little
Angela held the wooden horse's head, which had parted from its body.

"Rock, and comfort yourself--" tempted the voice.

Then slowly Aunt Rachel rose from her chair.

"No, Annabel," she said gently. "You should not have spoken. When the
snow melts you will go, and come no more; why then did you speak? It was
mine. It was not meant to be seen by another. I no longer want it. Please
go."

The swarthy woman turned her almond eyes on her once more.

"You cannot live without it," she said as she also rose....

And