“You little devil!” answered Bertram. “Come over here.”
Kate sank down on the edge of his chair, and dropped one arm about his neck.
Mrs. Tiffany, viewing the morning from the window of her room, saw them so. At first, she smiled; then a heavier expression 287 drew down all the lines of her face. She crossed to her dresser, where a long frame of many divisions held the photographs of all whom she had loved. The first in order was of a woman who had a face like Eleanor’s; a more beautiful Eleanor, perhaps, but with no such grave light of the spirit in her eyes. This she touched with her finger tips. But her look was bent upon the second, the portrait of a young man whose attitude, defying the conventional pose of old-fashioned photography, showed how blithe and merry and full of life he must have been.
“Ah, Billy Gray!” she whispered, “Billy Gray, you know, you, how sincerely Eleanor and I ought to thank God!”
THE END