question that needed an answer; I do not concern myself with names and
things. But ask this of yourself--is there sin on your soul?"

"No," she whispered, "unless it be a sin to suffer for twenty-five
years."

"Another's sin, then? You're grieving because another has done wrong?"

"Because another has done wrong to me." The Piper came to her and laid
his hand very gently upon hers. There was reassurance in the friendly,
human touch. "'T is there," he said, "that the trouble lies. 'T is
not for you to suffer because you are wronged, but for the one who has
wronged you. He must have been very dear to you, I'm thinking; else
you would not hide the beauty of your face."

"Beauty?" repeated Evelina, scornfully. "You do not understand. I was
burned--horribly burned."

"Yes," said the Piper, softly, "and what of that? Beauty is of the
soul."

He went out to the gate and brought in a small, flat box. "'T is for
you," he said. "I got it for you when I went to the city--there was
none here."

She opened the box, her fingers trembling, and held up length after
length of misty white chiffon. "I ask no questions," said the Piper,
proudly, "but I know that because you are so beautiful, you hide your
face. Laddie and I, we got more of the white stuff to help you hide
it, because you would not let us see how beautiful you are."

The chiffon fluttered in her hand, though there was no wind. "Why?"
she asked, in a strange voice; "why did you do this?"

"You gave me a garden," laughed the Piper, "when I had no garden of my
own, so why should I not get the white stuff for you? 'T was queer,
the day I got it," he went on, chuckling at the recollection, "for I
did not know its name. Every place I went, I asked for white stuff,
and they showed me many kinds, but nothing like this. At last I said
to a young girl: 'What is it that is like a cloud, all white and soft,
which one can see through, but through which no one can be seen--the
stuff that ladies wear when they are so beautiful that they do not want
their faces seen?' She smiled, and told me it was 'chiffon.' And
so--" A wave of the hand finished his explanation.

After an interval of silence, the Piper spoke again. "There are chains
that bind you," he began, "but they are chains of your own forging. No
one else can shackle you--you must always do it yourself. Whatever is
past is over, and I'm thinking you have no more to do with it than a
butterfly has wit