"A grave has lain between us for more than twenty years, but I am still her husband—there has been no change. And, if she died loving me, she is still mine. If she died loving me—if—she—died—loving me——"
His voice broke at the end, and he went out, murmuring the words to himself. Barbara watched him from the window as he opened the gate. Her face was wet with tears.
Flaming banners of sunset streamed from the hills beyond him, but his soul could see no Golden City to-night. He went up the road that led to another hillside, where, in the long, dreamy shadows, the dwellers in God's acre lay at peace. Barbara guessed where he was going and her heart ached for him—kneeling in prayer and vigil beside a sunken grave, to ask of earth a question to which the answer was lost, in heaven—or in hell.
V
Eloise
A Summer Hotel
The hotel was a long, low, rambling structure, with creaky floors and old-fashioned furniture. But the wide verandas commanded a glorious view of the sea, no canned vegetables were served at the table, and there was no orchestra. Naturally, it was crowded from June to October with people who earnestly desired quiet and were willing to go far to get it.
The inevitable row of rocking-chairs swayed back and forth on the seaward side. Most of them were empty, save, perhaps, for the ghosts of long-dead gossips who had sat and rocked and talked and rocked from one meal to the next. The paint on the veranda was worn in a long series of parallel lines, slightly curved, but nobody cared.