Two days afterwards Roger Orme died. On the afternoon of the funeral, Miss Winifred Goode sat in the old garden in the shade of the clipped yew, and looked at the house in which she had been born, and in which she had passed her sixty years of life, and at the old wistaria beneath which he had kissed her forty years ago. She smiled and murmured aloud:
"No, I would not have had a single thing different."
III
A LOVER'S DILEMMA
"How are you feeling now?"
Words could not express the music of these six liquid syllables that fell through the stillness and the blackness on my ears.
"Not very bright, I'm afraid, nurse," said I.
Think of something to do with streams and moonlight, and you may have an idea of the mellow ripple of the laugh I heard.
"I'm not the nurse. Can't you tell the difference? I'm Miss Deane—Dr. Deane's daughter."
"Deane?" I echoed.