the sunbeams. Yet only five minutes before she had suffered a sharp
recrudescence of soul--of that longing for happiness which is a part
of the resurrection of the spring, and which may survive not only the
knowledge of its own fruitlessness, but a belief in the existence of the
very happiness for which it longs. All the unlived romance in her heart
had come to life with the young green around her. Middle-age had not
deadened, it had merely dulled her. For the pang of desire is not,
after all, the divine prerogative of youth, nor has it even a conscious
relation to the possibility of fulfilment. Her soul looked out of her
eyes while she gazed over the azalea in her hand--yet, in spite of the
songs of the poets, the soul in her eyes did not make them beautiful.

"I came down with Jonathan, Molly," she said. "You will doubtless find
him at the brook." For an instant she hesitated in confusion and then
added hurriedly, "We were speaking about you."

"Were you?" asked Molly a little awkwardly, for Kesiah always
embarrassed her.

"We were both saying how much we admired your devotion to your
grandfather. One rarely finds such attachment in the young to the old."

"I have always loved him better than anybody except mother."

"I am sure you have, and it speaks very well for both of you. We are all
much interested in you, Molly."

"It's kind of you to think about me," answered Molly, and her voice was
constrained as it had been when she spoke in the library at Jordan's
Journey.

"We feel a great concern for your future," said Kesiah. "Whatever we can
do to help you, we shall do very gladly. I always felt a peculiar pity
and sympathy for your mother." Her voice choked, for it was, perhaps,
as spontaneous an expression of her emotions as she had ever permitted
herself.

"Thank you, ma'am," replied Molly simply, and the title of respect to
which Reuben had trained her dropped unconsciously from her lips. She
honestly liked Kesiah, though, in common with the rest of her little
world, she had fallen into the habit of regarding her as a person whom
it was hardly worth one's while to consider. Mrs. Gay had so completely
effaced her sister that the rough edges of Kesiah's character were
hardly visible beneath the little lady's enveloping charm.

"It is natural that you should have felt bitterly toward your father,"
began the older woman again in a trembling voice, "but I hope you
realize that the thought of his wrong to you