gave an annoyed shrug. "But really, _I_ make the thought of
death my constant companion. And you are older than I."

"'After the busy day
Comes the calm sleep of night,'"

she quoted, with a sententious sigh.

"Calm and sleep do not appear to me to be the highest conditions of
life. No! I will not be set aside, even when I am dead, like a
burned-out candle!" The indignant tears stood in her eyes. "Why, even
in that other world I shall not be a barren stock, thank God! I have
given a family to mankind. To watch a long line of your descendants at
work, to see in them your own thoughts and your own soul reaching out,
live powers through all eternity--I often think of it. That will
be--not calm nor sleep."

Miss Vance touched Mrs. Waldeaux's arm affectionately. "What a queer
idea, Frances. Well, I never argue, you know. Drop in the harness, if
you choose. Let us go in now. It is chilly."

The older woman looked after her, and smiled good-humoredly. After a
moment she raised her hand, examining it attentively. Her hand had
been very beautiful in shape, white and dimpled, and she had been vain
enough to wear fine rings. Now it was yellow and wrinkled. The great
emerald looked like a bit of glass upon it.

"Yes, I see," she said, with a miserable little laugh, and then stood
looking out into the far distance. "But _I_ am not growing old." She
spoke aloud, as if to one who stood apart with her and could
understand. "Even out in that other world I shall not be only a
mother. I shall be me. ME!" touching her breast. "After a million of
years--it will still be me."

There stirred within the lean body and rheumatic limbs depths of unused
power, of thought, of love and passion, and, deeper than all, awful
possibilities of change.

"I have it in me still to be worse than a murderer," she thought, with
whitening face.

She stood a long time, alone. A strange content and light came slowly
into her face. "Come what will, I shall never be left to myself
again," she said at last, speaking to a Friend whom she had found long
ago.

Then she went in search of the boy. "Come, Jack," she said cheerfully,
"there are busy days before us."

George and Lucy that evening reached Dover, prettiest of American
towns. They strolled down the shaded street out into a quiet country
lane. Lucy sat down upon a fallen tree, and George threw himself upon
the grass beside her.

"To-morrow we shall be at hom