her body and
the carriage of her head were precisely as they had been, but her
cheeks were a little thinner, and some of her brilliant colouring was
gone; but the fact that would most speedily have appealed to one who
had not seen her for the two years was the circumstance that she wore
deep mourning--a mourning that lent an unfamiliar, almost a fragile air
to her whole appearance.

That would have been the first impression; and then, as one studied her
more closely, it would have been borne in upon one that these were mere
outward signs--that the true, the real alteration lay not in dress, not
in the thinness of her face nor in the unwonted pallor of her skin, but
in the very curious expression with which she gazed out over the
distant hills; the look of kinship--of comprehension--of that illusive,
subtle sentiment that we call anticipation, with which her eyes met the
far-off sky line.

For many moments she stood as if fascinated by the sense of promise
that breathed and vibrated in the spring air; then, at last, with a
quickly taken breath, she turned away from the open window, and,
recrossing the room, seated herself again at the bureau, picked up her
pen, and with new inspiration began to write.

"LARRY--DEAR COUSIN,--

"I, the worst correspondent in all the world, am going to write you
a long letter--because my heart is so full of thoughts that I must
unburden it to some one who will listen. Who better than my
friend--my brother--of the old dear, dear days?

"It was good of you and Aunt Fan to write me those two long
affectionate letters; and I needed them. For though there was no
horror in James's death, death itself is--and always must
be--terrible to me. Terrible--but also very, very wonderful!
Wonderful beyond words, when one realises that somebody one has
known as good and kind and unselfish--but ordinary, Larry, ordinary
as oneself--is suddenly transformed into something infinitely wise
and mysterious, with a mystery one can only think about and fear.

"One month ago, James was in his usual health, going about his
little daily tasks, losing himself in his little daily interests.
And now he understands the million things that puzzle you and me
and the rest of the world of living people!

"His death--as I told you in my first short note--was painless and
quiet, and unselfish like his life. He held my hand and knew me to
th