Mrs. Staunton was sitting in her favorite seat by the window. Her face was scarcely at all paler than it had been a week ago. She sat then by the window, looking out at her trouble, which showed like a speck in the blue sky. The shadow which enveloped her whole life was coming closer now, enveloping her like a thick fog. Still she was bearing up. Her eyes were gazing out on the garden—on the flowers which she and the doctor had tended and loved together. Some of the younger children had clustered round her knee—one of them held her hand—another played with a bunch of keys and trinkets which she always wore at her side.
"Go on, mother," said little Marjory, aged seven. "Don't stop."
"I have nearly finished," said Mrs. Staunton.
"But not quite. Go on, mother; I want to hear the end of the story," said Phil.
Mrs. Staunton did not see Dorothy, who stood motionless near the door.
"They got so tired," she began in a monotonous sort of voice—"so dreadfully tired, that there was nothing for them to do but to try and get into the White Garden."
"A White Garden!" repeated Phil. "Was it pretty?"
"Lovely!"
"Why was it called a White Garden?" asked Marjory.
"Because of the flowers. They were all white—white roses, white lilies, snowdrops, chrysanthemums—all the flowers that are pure white without any color. The air is sweet with their perfume—the people who come to live in the White Garden wear white flowers on their white dresses—it is a beautiful sight."