ng at night white-faced and exhausted, but content.

One morning when Madame came down to breakfast, she found at her plate a
single bunch of grapes, wet with dew and still cool with the chill of
the night. She took it up with an exclamation of pleasure, for never,
within her memory, had such grapes as these come even from the Marsh
vineyards.

She held the heavy cluster to the sunlight, noting the perfect shape of
the fruit, the purple goblets filled with sweetness, and the fairy-like
bloom, more delicate even than the dust on the butterfly's wing. Pride
and thankfulness filled her heart, for, to her, it was not only their
one source of income but a trust imposed upon them by those who had laid
out the vineyard, and, more than all else, the standard by which her son
was to succeed or fail.

[Sidenote: Night after Night]

The tribal sense was strong in Madame, last though she was of a long and
noble line. Uninterruptedly the blood of the Marshs had coursed through
generation after generation, carrying with it the high dower of courage,
of strength to do the allotted task hopefully and well. And
now--Madame's face saddened, remembering Edith.

Since her one attempt to cross the silence that lay like a two-edged
sword between them, Madame had said nothing to Alden. Nor had he even
mentioned Edith's name since she went away, though his face, to the
loving eyes of his mother, bore its own message.

Night after night, when they sat in the living-room after dinner, no
word would be spoken by either until bedtime, when Madame would say
"Good-night," and, in pity, slip away, leaving him to follow when he
chose. Sometimes he would answer, but, more frequently, he did not even
hear his mother leave the room. Yearning over him as only a mother may,
Madame would lie awake with her door ajar, listening for his step upon
the stairs.

While the night waxed and waned, Alden sat alone, his eyes fixed
unalterably upon Edith's empty chair, in which, by common consent,
neither of them sat. The soft outlines of her figure seemed yet to lie
upon the faded tapestry; the high, carved back seemed still to bear the
remembered splendour of her beautiful head.

[Sidenote: Balm for Alden]

After Madame had gone, Alden would sometimes light the candle that stood
upon the piano, mute now save for the fingers of Memory. Moving the
bench out a little and turning it slightly toward the end of the room,
he would go back to his own far corner,