ht came over
the hills and brought into the room some subtle suggestion of colour.
Gradually, the pain came back, so keenly that it was not to be borne,
and the kind woman with the bit of silver in her hand leaned over the
bed once more. Quickly, the poppies brought their divine gift of peace
again. And so, Barbara slept.

Then Ambrose North gently loosened the still fingers that were
interlaced with his, bent over, and, so gently as not to waken her, took
her boy-lover's kiss from her lips.

XII

Miriam

Miriam moved about the house, silently, as always. She had assumed the
extra burden of Barbara's helplessness as she assumed everything--without
comment, and with outward calm.

[Sidenote: Joy and Duty]

Only her dark eyes, that burned and glittered so strangely, gave hint of
the restlessness within. She served Ambrose North with steadfast and
unfailing devotion; she waited upon Barbara mechanically, but readily.
An observer could not have detected any real difference in her bearing
toward the two, yet the service of one was a joy, the other a duty.

After the first week the nurse who had remained with Barbara had gone
back to the city. In this short time, Miriam had learned much from her.
She knew how to change a sheet without disturbing the patient very much;
she could give Barbara both food and drink as she lay flat upon her
back, and ease her aching body a little in spite of the plaster cast.

Ambrose North restlessly haunted the house and refused to leave
Barbara's bedside unless she was asleep. Often she feigned slumber to
give him opportunity to go outdoors for the exercise he was accustomed
to taking. And so the life of the household moved along in its usual
channels.

[Sidenote: A Living Image]

As she lay helpless, with her pretty colour gone and the great braids of
golden hair hanging down on either side, Barbara looked more like her
dead mother than ever. Suffering had brought maturity to her face and
sometimes even Miriam was startled by the resemblance. One day Barbara
had asked, thoughtfully, "Aunty, do I look like my mother?" And Miriam
had answered, harshly, "You're the living image of her, if you want to
know."

Miriam repeatedly told herself that Constance had wronged her--that
Ambrose North had belonged to her until the younger girl came from
school with her pretty, laughing ways. He had never had eyes for Miriam
after he had once seen Constance, and, in an incredibly short ti