The music stopped.
"Mavis...." he was beside me, something in his hand. I turned, startled.
"I didn't give you a wedding present," he said, half-smiling, "but before we left I had just time to have this made for you."
I took the small, black leather case from his hand and opened it. My father's face looked back at me, wonderfully living. Almost it seemed as if the gentle, strong mouth would smile and speak.
"I had it painted before—before the tide turned," said Bill, "from the picture he gave me."
I closed my hands upon the miniature and my eyes against the tears.
"You are very good," I said falteringly. "I—you couldn't have given me anything I could have cared for more."
He stood, his broad shoulders squared against the mantel, and looked at me gravely.
"I hope," he said and stopped. Then, very evenly, he went on, "I hope you will try to be happy here, Mavis."
Happy! A sudden revulsion of feeling came over me. What use had I for happiness? I had been almost stupefied, like an animal in the sun, dreaming vaguely before the fire. But now....