on a door near at hand, then waited a moment, and,
getting no response, turned away toward the shed and the deep, wet,
burring sound of a wash-board. The woman bending over it did not hear
his footfall. Presently he stopped. She had just straightened up,
lifting a piece of the washing to the height of her head, and letting it
down with a swash and slap upon the board. It was a woman's garment,
but certainly not hers. For she was small and slight. Her hair was
hidden under a towel. Her skirts were shortened to a pair of dainty
ankles by an extra under-fold at the neat, round waist. Her feet were
thrust into a pair of sabots. She paused a moment in her work, and,
lifting with both smoothly rounded arms, bared nearly to the shoulder, a
large apron from her waist, wiped the perspiration from her forehead. It
was Mary.

The red blood came up into the Doctor's pale, thin face. This was too
outrageous. This was insult! He stirred as if to move forward. He would
confront her. Yes, just as she was. He would speak. He would speak
bluntly. He would chide sternly. He had the right. The only friend in
the world from whom she had not escaped beyond reach,--he would speak
the friendly, angry word that would stop this shocking--

But, truly, deeply incensed as he was, and felt it his right to be,
hurt, wrung, exasperated, he did not advance. She had reached down and
taken from the wash-bench the lump of yellow soap that lay there, and
was soaping the garment on the board before her, turning it this way and
that. As she did this she began, all to herself and for her own ear,
softly, with unconscious richness and tenderness of voice, to sing. And
what was her song?

"Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?"

Down drooped the listener's head. Remember? Ah, memory!--The old,
heart-rending memory! Sweet Alice!

"Sweet Alice, whose hair was so brown?"

Yes, yes; so brown!--so brown!

"She wept with delight when you gave her a smile,
And trembled with fear at your frown."

Ah! but the frown is gone! There is a look of supplication now. Sing no
more! Oh, sing no more! Yes, surely, she will stop there!

No. The voice rises gently--just a little--into the higher key, soft and
clear as the note of a distant bird, and all unaware of a listener. Oh!
in mercy's name--

"In the old church-yard in the valley, Ben Bolt,
In a corner obscure and alone,
They have fitted a slab of granite so gray,