ee at last," said Peter. "Why didn't you--Oh, why
_didn't_ you--take what was left to you?"

"My dear, we were already old. Romance was still in our hearts, but we
hadn't the courage to take it, publicly, into our lives. We had felt a
great love, and been brave enough to deny it. But when we could have
satisfied it honorably--we were afraid of the change in our lives; we
were afraid of our children, of your father and Sheila's; we were even
afraid of what the town would say! In the beginning we had striven not
to dare. In the end we could not dare. It is sad that we should be
like that, isn't it, Peter? It's sad that as the strength of our youth
goes from us, the valor of our love should go too. But it is so, it is
so for all of us, my dear. The day before your grandfather died,
something flamed up in us again. The courage of new life came to him,
and he made me promise to marry him the next day. But the next day he
was--dead!"

She fell silent, her eyes fixed broodingly upon the fire, eyes that
looked strangely young. Peter, silent too, was remembering that day
before his grandfather's death; remembering Mrs. Caldwell's presence in
the house, and the indescribable sense of some other presence also. He
had felt it so strongly, that other presence, that the whole house had
seemed to him to be pervaded and thrilled by it. His father was living
then, and they two had spent the afternoon in the library, while Mrs.
Caldwell had sat with his grandfather in the room above. He had said
to his father--he recalled it quite clearly--"I feel
something--_something_--in the very air." And his father had appeared
startled and had replied, "Perhaps death is in the air." But Peter
knew now that it had not been death he had felt; that it had not been
death that had filled the air as if with rushing wings and shooting
stars and invisible, ineffable glories. It had not been death; it had
been love. And glancing at Mrs. Caldwell's musing eyes, something like
envy came into his own. He went to her, knelt, and kissed her thin old
hand.

"After all, you _had_ love," he murmured. And then, "I wish you had
been my grandmother. I _wish_ you had."

"Oh, Peter!" she cried. "Oh, Peter! Peter!" And suddenly her arms
were around his neck.

As she clung to him, her tears on his face and her heart's secret in
his hands, he almost told her; he almost said what he had resolved
never to say. And yet he did not.

"He's nev