he sat there. Bits of her
childhood flashed back at her out of the eternal stillness, "even as the
beads of a told rosary." Since the day she met Alden's father,
everything was clear and distinct, for, with women, life begins with
love and the rest is as though it had never been.

An old daguerreotype was close at hand in a table drawer. She opened the
ornate case tenderly, brushed the blue velvet that lined it, and kissed
the pictured face behind the glass. So much had they borne together, so
much had they loved, and all was gone--save this!

The serene eyes, for ever youthful, looked back at her across the years.
Except for the quaint, old-fashioned look inseparable from an old
picture, the face was that of the boy who had left her a few hours ago.
The deep, dark eyes, the regular features, the firm straight chin, the
lovable mouth, the adorable boyishness--all were there, shut in by blue
velvet and glass.

[Sidenote: The Man She Loved]

Madame smiled as she sat there looking at it. She had always had her way
with the father--why should she doubt her power over the son? Supremely
maternal as she was, the sheltering instinct had extended even to the
man she loved. He had been outwardly strong and self-confident, assured,
self-reliant, even severe with others, but behind the bold exterior, as
always to the eyes of the beloved woman, had been a little, shrinking,
helpless child, craving the comfort of a woman's hand--the sanctuary of
a woman's breast.

Even in her own hours of stress and trial, she had feared to lean upon
him too much, knowing how surely he depended upon her. He was more than
forty when he died, yet to her he had been as one of her children,
though infinitely dearer than any child could be.

The quick tears started at the thought of the children, for the childish
prattle had so soon been hushed, the eager little feet had been so
quickly stilled. Alden was the first-born son, with an older daughter,
who had been named Virginia, for her mother. Virginia would have been
thirty-two now, and probably married, with children of her own. The
second son would have been twenty-eight, and, possibly, married also.
There might have been a son-in-law, a daughter-in-law, and three or
four children by this time, had these two lived.

[Sidenote: The House of Memories]

So, through the House of Memories her fancy sped, as though borne on
wings. Childish voices rang through the empty corridors and the fairy
patte