She told the driver not to wait, and lingered long in the Kelton lot where snow-draped evergreens marked its four corners.

The snow lay smooth on the two graves, and she placed her flowers upon them softly without disturbing the white covering.

A farmboy whistling along the highway saw her in the lonely cemetery and trudged on silently, but he did not know that the woman tending her graves did not weep, or that when she turned slowly away, looking back at last from the iron gates, it was not of the past she thought, nor of the heartache buried there, but of a world newly purified, with long, broad vistas of hope and aspiration lengthening before her.

But we must not too long leave the bell--an absurd contrivance of wire and knob--that tinkled rather absently and eerily in the kitchen pantry.

Let us repeat once more and for the last time:-- Sylvia was reading in her grandfather's library when the bell tinkled.
Truly enough, a book lay in her lap, but it may be that, after all, she had not done more than skim its pages--an old "Life of Nelson" that had been a favorite of her grandfather's.