lind woman for Miss Juliana's forehead, laying her
hand there before she looked into her face.

After some fumbling futile experiments with brandy, a looking-glass and a
feather, old Martha hid these things carefully out of sight; she
disarranged the bed, turning back the clothes as they might have been
left by one newly wakened and risen out of it; drew a shawl over the head
and shoulders of the figure in the chair; pulled down the blind and
closed the curtains till the room was dark again. Then she groped her way
out and down the stairs to her mistress's door. There she stayed a
moment, gathering her feeble wits together for the part she meant to
play. She had made up her mind what she would do.

So she called the Old Lady as usual; said she was afraid there was
something the matter with Miss Juliana; thought she might have got up a
bit too early and turned faint like.

The Old Lady answered that she would come and see; and the two crept up
the stairs, and went groping their way in the dark of the curtained room.
Old Martha fumbled a long time with the blind; she drew back the curtains
little by little, with infinite precaution letting in the light upon the
fearful thing.

But the Old Lady approached it boldly.

"Don't you know me, Jooley dear?" she said, peering into the strange
eyes. There was no recognition in them for all their staring.

"Don't know _me_, m'm," said Martha soothingly; "seems all of a white
swoon, don't she?"

Martha was warming to her part. She made herself busy; she brought hot
water bottles and eau de cologne; she spent twenty minutes chafing the
hands and forehead and laying warmth to the feet, that the Old Lady might
have the comfort of knowing that everything had been done that could be
done. She shuffled off to find brandy, as if she had only thought of it
that instant; and she played out the play with the looking-glass and the
feather.

The feather fluttered to the floor, and Martha ceased bending and
peering, and looked at her mistress.

"She's gone, m'm, I do believe."

The Old Lady sank by the chair, her arms clinging to those rigid knees.

"Jooley--Jooley--don't you _know_ me?" she cried, as if in a passion of
affront.

CHAPTER XII

Epilogue.--The Man and the Woman

By daylight there is neither glamour nor beauty in the great
burying-ground of North London; you must go to it at evening, in the
first fall of the summer dusk, to feel the fascination of that labyr