She lifted her hand in that old gesture to her breast, the same pale look of ineffable goodness which he remembered. Then, still looking back, she turned, mounted the steps and entered the door of her house and stood before him as if she waited. She showed against the shadows like the figure of a shrine upon a dark hillside above a dusty road over which pilgrims come and go. They are never moved, these shrines, from age to age. They are altars that do not fall. So are some women. They are the sanctuaries of mankind. It is the fashion to despise them, but they hold the world together.
Cutter came slowly up the step, with a flash of life and hope in his face—an ignoble and worthless man made safe in the shelter of a woman’s heart, whose wish was that none should perish who looked to her for comfort. It was not love, but honor that opened the door of her house to him.
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.