ave stepped into the house of
dead men's bones; and here she could see at play old emotions not met
before in her guarded life: shrivelling contempt, undying hatred,
immortal unforgiveness. Nevertheless, the subtlest stroke in the naked
confrontation was that something in the father's expression, distorted
though it was, reminded her of the son, whose face in this world she
should see no more.

She tried to move past the face of her Nemesis, appeared physically
incapable of motion; tried to speak, and had little more success.

"I--I'm--very sorry--for--" she said, indistinctly, and her ears were
mocked with her ghastly inadequacy. "I--I've--"

"Sorry? Why, of course you are. Doubtless the little unpleasantness has
marred your happiness at times. But I am gratified to know that you have
other young men for your amusement, now that my son has withdrawn
himself from your reach."

The old Colonel stooped further, brought his stabbing gaze nearer her.
There were heavy yellow pouches under his eyes; his lower lip, not
hidden by the stained white mustaches, twitched spasmodically.

"God looked and repented him that he had made man. I might wish that
he'd made you a man--for just five minutes. But what do you imagine he
thinks when he contemplates you and your work, my dear? Eh?... little
she-devil, pretty little hell-cat!..."

Cally smothered a little noise between a cry and a sob. She started
away, by sheer strength of horror; somehow got away from the terrible
old face, ran up her own steps. Glancing whitely over her shoulder from
this secure coign, she saw that Jack Dalhousie's father still stood
unmoving on her sidewalk, staring and leaning on his cane....

She closed the door quickly, shutting out the sight.

XXX

How it sounded like an Epitaph, but still she would not cry;
how she thinks of the Beach again, and hugs a Hateful Word to
her Bosom; and Hugo starts suddenly on a sort of
Wedding-Trip.

In her own room Carlisle was seized with a wild desire to cry. Her
spirit, shocked past bearing, demanded this instant relief. But she
fought down the loosening impulses within her, knowing their worse than
uselessness; she had shed her heart's tears for this before now. And her
need now was for strength; strength to meet her mother when need be,
against whom key nor bolt brought privacy: strength, above all, to wipe
out this mark set upon her forehead....

She resisted the impulse