And then the tears came, washing away ice, doubt, despair, cleansing anew a humble and contrite heart.
From that undiscovered country, whose existence she had obstinately denied, a traveller had returned.
After lighting the kitchen fire, Susan Yellam entered the parlour. She pulled up the blinds and drew the curtains. From her desk, she took a sharp penknife, and tried its edge upon her thumb. Then, reluctantly, as if ashamed, she opened the Bible, intending to erase carefully the last presumptuous entry.
She glanced at it, and a sharp exclamation escaped her trembling lips. She put on her spectacles and stared, open-mouthed, at the page in front of her. "Died, December 28th, 1916," was written not, as she had supposed, against the name of Susan Yellam, but against the name of Fancy Yellam.
And then she remembered that, in her blind haste to record her own death, she had forgotten to put on her spectacles.
And the light, at the time, was failing.
The Light was not failing now.
She fell upon her knees, bowing her head over the Book.
Next Sunday she was in her pew.
THE END