ere was a ring it was, 'Is that from her?' and I heard her say to
herself: 'I thought she would be _sure_ to come.' I simply had to go out
in the passage, I couldn't keep back my tears, and of course one must
always be bright before a patient; it is so bad for them if one isn't.
Some nieces and nephews came, and one of them stayed several days, and
two brothers, I think; and there were several members of the family
there for the funeral, and she had some simply lovely wreaths, and the
church was nice and full, numbers of her poor people were there,"
brought there, as surely the kind nurse knew, not from love of
Henrietta, but from love of funerals, "but when your wire did come I
cried for joy, though we couldn't make her take it in, poor dear; still
it seemed as if someone really cared for her. Oh, she looked so lovely
and peaceful at the end, all the trouble gone."

This was a comforting deception, which the nurse thought it justifiable
to practise on relations, for in fact death had not changed Henrietta;
there had been no transfiguration to beauty and nobility, she looked
what she had been in life--insignificant, feeble, and unhappy.

"Miss Symons asked me to give you this box," said the nurse. "She made
me promise I would give it you over and over again."

Evelyn found it was an inlaid sandalwood box, which she had sent from
India as a present from the first baby. In it she found Herbert's letter
announcing the death of little Madeline, hers and the other two babies'
photographs, and a sheet of notepaper, tied with blue ribbon. On it was
written, "I can't tell you how much good you have done me, I seem to
have been living for this for fifteen years. EVELYN, September 23,
1890." As she read it, Evelyn remembered, what she had long forgotten,
that this was what she had once said to Henrietta.

When she walked to the hotel, it was a bright, sunny afternoon, and snow
was on the ground. She went to her room to take off her things, but she
stood instead at the window, too intent on what she had heard to be
capable of anything. Her heart was almost bursting to think that
Henrietta should have treasured all these years the little love she had
given her, crumbs, which she had as it were left over from her husband
and boys, love not even for Henrietta's own sake, but for the sake of
the dead children. She with all the riches of love poured on her, and
Henrietta with so little. "I was cold, selfish, self-absorbed, I didn't