Her eyes were fixed unseeingly upon a great canvas at the other end of the hall. Some Riverfield hand had portrayed a Riverfield imagination’s conception of the moment in the life of Christ when, the temptations of Satan withstood, angels came to Him upon the mountain. In the lower distance the kingdoms of the world grew dim beneath the shadow that fell from the vanquished and retreating tempter, and from the opening heavens a dazzling cloud of angels streamed toward the solitary Figure on the height. By and by Millicent’s eyes took note of it. She half smiled. There was daring at least!
Then the picture faded, and again the persistent figure of the child which had so filled her imagination came before her. But this time it was toward herself that the rosy face was turned and limpid eyes lifted in unquestioning dependence. She was the mother; she stood on the piazza, and by her side he stood, who had been so dear in himself, so infinitely dearer in the thought of all that should be; toward them the child came; they were enveloped by breathless love for each other and for that being, innocent, trusting, which their love had called into life. So, dimly, she had dreamed in the radiant days of old. Almost she could feel his hand upon her shoulder, hear his voice full of tenderness that expressed itself only in tone, not in word, taking refuge from too great feeling in jest. She closed her eyes against the vision that made her faint with anguish.
Some one entered the room with a brisk little trot; Millicent opened her eyes and turned her head. A small woman, “old maid” from the top of her neat gray head to the toe of her list shoes, came forward. She held a pad and pencil and wore the badge of authority in her manner. At sight of Millicent she paused, blinking behind her glasses. Millicent came slowly out of her trance; recognition dawned upon her. She rose.
“Miss Hayter—Aunt Harriet!” she cried, advancing.
“It is you, then!” chirped the elder lady. “My dear, who could have expected this?”
“Not I, for one!” She held both Miss Hayter’s hands. “I had no idea you were here. Surely you haven’t given up your beloved Boston school?”
“Oh no. Only in the summer I come here for a month and substitute for the regular curator while she is on her vacation. It”—she struggled against a constitutional distaste for self-revelation—“it seems like a little visit with Will, somehow.”
Millicent’s throat throbbed with a strangled sob. No one had spoken his name in so long! Her people had had no interest but to banish the memory of him from her heart; this quaint little aunt of his, who had adored him and lived for him, was the first who had spoken of him in—she did not know how many years. She held tight to the old hands, her eyes clung to the withering face. “Say it again,” she whispered; “say his name.”
“Why, my dear,” cried the older woman, “is it still as hard as this? Come, sit down here with me. Of course I knew that you were not one of the changing kind,”—Millicent winced,—“but I’m sorry to think you should suffer now as keenly as you do.”