Miss Deane's eyes grew moist.
"Oh, I thank you for telling me your story!" she said. "It is beautiful, and you have lived a noble life."
The shadows had grown deeper in the woods as Miss Carroway followed a path back to the lake, and so around to the Lodge. The sun had vanished from the tree tops, and some of the light and reflex of youth had faded from the old lady's face.
Perhaps she was a little weary with her walk, and it may be a little disappointed at what she had heard, or rather what she had not heard, in her talk with Constance Deane. At the end of the lake she followed the path through the little birch grove and came upon Frank Weatherby, where he mused, on the stone seat.
Miss Carroway paused as he rose and greeted her.
"I just come from a good walk," she said peacefully. "I've been over to the Deanes' camp. It's a pretty place."
Frank nodded.
"I suppose you saw the family," he said.
"No; only Miss Deane. She was studyin' tudstools, but I guess they wa'n't pizen. I guess she knows 'em."
Frank made no comment on this remark, and the old lady looked out on the lake a moment and added, as one reflecting aloud on a matter quite apart from the subject in hand: