ld make his friend promise to
burn the wooden box unopened, if he died abroad.

Everything else, with the exception of some favorite books which could
be slipped into his luggage, he determined to give away. Gossip about
the sale of the Mirador, and Sanbourne's intended departure for Serbia,
ran like quicksilver, in all directions. The acquaintances he had
made--or rather acquaintances who had fastened upon him--began calling
to enquire if the news were true, and their question answered itself
before it was asked. The hermit of the Mirador and his faithful dumb
companion, a pipe, were surrounded with the aimless confusion of a
hasty flitting. Souvenirs of John Sanbourne had their value, but he did
not appear to know that. He offered his Lares and Penates recklessly,
to any one who would accept. The parson's daughter, to whom--all
unconsciously--he was an ideal hero, took away the pictures, copies of
those the child Barbara had loved. The parson himself got a valuable
contribution of books for his library. The furniture was given to a
young couple who had taken a bungalow not far off, and were getting it
ready with an eye to economy. Dishes and linen went the same way,
excepting a cup and saucer and teapot which were clamored for with
tears by an old lady for whom "The War Wedding" ranked with the Bible.

Denin had allowed no one to enter the balconied bedroom, for he had
left Barbara's portrait until the last minute, and no eyes but his were
to see that sacred thing. Once the picture was shut away and nailed up
between layers of cotton and wood, it might be that he should never
again be greeted by the dear, elusive smile. The furniture from
upstairs he had added to the confusion of the sitting-room below, and
early in the afternoon of Thursday everything had been carted away by
the new owners. To strip the house while Sanbourne was still in it
seemed heartless, they had protested; but he had begged them to do so.
Mr. Bradley was to claim possession of the place next day.

When all those who called themselves his friends had bidden him
good-by, a curious sense of peace, of pause between storms, fell upon
the departing hermit of the Mirador. Because the little house was
almost as empty and echoing as on the day when he had seen it first,
that day lived again very clearly in Denin's mind. He had sought a
refuge, and had found happiness. The spirit of Barbara had come to him
in the garden, and had brought him love. That l