It is the one my Father meant for me,
And so—because He bids me—still I write."
Richard De Jarnette laid the picture down gently and went outside. He felt bewildered. It was a moonless, starless night. For an hour or more a glowing spark moved back and forth, back and forth, in the rose garden his mother had planted.
CHAPTER XXVI
FACE TO FACE
It was weeks before Margaret emerged from the shadow of death that fell upon her that day in the court-room. When she did she looked like one of the shades. The fever had wrought sad ravages.
"It's too bad!" whispered Maria Van Dorn to Bess the first time she saw her. "A woman has lost all when she's lost her beauty." And she glanced with a degree of satisfaction at her own fair reflection. The contrast was striking. Maria had never been in better flesh or color.
"I hadn't thought of that," said Bess. "I'm so glad to see her alive."
But if Margaret's cheeks were hollow and the rose tint gone, the light that shone above them was undimmed. From their deep setting her great eyes glowed like smouldering coals.
They kept her at the hospital as long as they could, delaying the home-coming upon every possible pretext. When at last she came the house was swept and garnished but very empty.