and were on the train going to Winnipeg, and I saw them
at the station. She's lovelier than ever. This sounds foolish to you,
I know, Martha, but that's because you don't know. I hope you will
never know."

Martha turned away hastily.

"All this," he continued, waving his hand toward the evening sky and
the quiet landscape, "all this reminds me of her. You know, Martha,
when you look at the sun for a while you can see suns everywhere you
look; that's the way it is with me."

The colour was fading from the sky; only the faintest trace of
rose-pink tinged the gray clouds.

"I think I shall go home to England," Arthur said, after a long
silence. "I shall go home for a while, and then, perhaps--pshaw! I
don't know what I shall do." In the failing light he could not see
the pallor of Martha's face, neither did he notice that she shivered
as if with cold.

The sunset glory had all gone from the clouds; there was nothing left
now but the ashes.

"I am sorry you are going," Martha said steadily. "We will miss you."

The schoolmaster, who was sitting by the kitchen window, noticed
Martha's white face when she came into the house and guessed the
cause. Looking after Arthur as he walked rapidly down the road to his
own house, Mr. Donald shook his head sadly, murmuring to himself:
"Lord, who did sin, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?"

When Martha went up to her own room she sat before the mirror as she
had done that at other night two years before, and looked sadly at
her face reflected there. She recalled his words: "She is lovelier
than ever"--this was what had won and held his love. Oh, this cruel,
unjust world, where the woman without beauty has to go lonely,
hungry, unmated--it was not fair; she stretched out her arms in an
agony of longing.

"Thursa cares nothing for him, and I would gladly die to save him
pain!" she whispered hoarsely.

She tore off her collar roughly and threw it from her; she took down
her hair and brushed it almost savagely; then she went to the open
window, and, leaning on the casement, listened to the rustling of the
wheat. It no longer sang to her of peace and plenty, but inexorable,
merciless as the grave itself, it spoke to her of heart-break and
hopes that never come true.

* * *

In September Arthur went to England. After he had gone, Martha went
about her work with the same quiet cheerfulness. She had always been
a kind-hearted neighbour, but now she seemed to deli