not exact to say
that with the finding of the picture her doubt of his affection for her
vanished; for in truth, she had no doubts, the possession was too
absolute. But the sight came upon her as the presence of a mortal being,
alive and visible, comes on one when he enters a room. And there is no
question that it was a comfort; if she had really loved Max, at this
time, the knowledge of his death would have been her cruelest shock; for
then she could have no hope to meet him again in the world--no hope of
some explanation and the happiness of life together. But she was not in
love with the young German, she was touched by his admiration, she
admired him tenderly, she felt the moving of a subtle attraction which
she called friendship and which might pass into a keener feeling; but
she did not love him. Not then. Therefore, she felt a sweetness in her
pain; she could respect herself once more; she had a new and mystical
joy; for was she not beloved above women? Had not her lover come to her,
through what strange paths who may know, to comfort her? This is the
story of the picture. She could not tell it. Nor did she; but she hung
Max's portrait on the walls of her little parlor; and she hung opposite
a picture of the castle; and from that day, never a day passed that it
did not influence her. She used to think her thoughts before it. She
came to it with her grief for the loss of kindred and friends, with her
loneliness, with her anxieties, with her aspirations, her plans, her
cares for others, her slowly dawning interests and affections. She was a
reticent woman, who might never have allowed her heart to expand to her
husband himself, beyond a certain limit; but she hid nothing from Max.
In time, she fell into the habit of talking to the picture. She called
him Max. The first time she spoke his name she blushed. She made her
toilets for him more than for the world; but whether Max could admire
them or not, it is certain that the girls knew every change in her
pretty gowns. Her sense of having been loved had its effect on her
manner, and a deeper effect on her heart. At thirty she was a New
England nun; at forty she was the woman who understands. The love which
the shrinking and critical girl repelled at its first step toward her,
without knowing, the woman who pitied and who understood, attracted,
quite as unconsciously.

"It is very queer, Max," she said, "that in my old age men should want
to marry me. But I like you be