She had seated herself upon the broad stone kerb. With her hand she stirred the logs; they shot into a clear white flame. Thus, the light upon her face, she raised it gravely towards mine. It spoke to me with fuller voice. The clear grey eyes were frank and steadfast as ever, but shadow had passed into them, deepening them, illuminating them.
For a space we talked of our two selves, our trivial plans and doings.
“Tom left something to you,” said Norah, rising, “not in his will, that was only a few lines. He told me to give it to you, with his love.”
She brought it to me. It was the picture he had always treasured, his first success; a child looking on death; “The Riddle” he had named it.
We spoke of him, of his work, which since had come to be appraised at truer value, for it was out of fashion while he lived.
“Was he a disappointed man, do you think?” I asked.
“No,” answered Norah. “I am sure not. He was too fond of his work.”
“But he dreamt of becoming a second Millet. He confessed it to me once. And he died an engraver.”
“But they were good engravings,” smiled Norah.
“I remember a favourite saying of his,” continued Norah, after a pause; “I do not know whether it was original or not. 'The stars guide us. They are not our goal.'”