But she still lived in the tiny cottage behind its long strip of garden.

The door yielded to Joan's touch: it was seldom fast closed.
And knowing Mary's ways, she entered without knocking and pushed it to behind her, leaving it still ajar.
And as she did so, it seemed to her that someone passing breathed upon her lips a little kiss: and for a while she did not move.

Then, treading softly, she looked into the room.
It welcomed her, as always, with its smile of cosy neatness.

The spotless curtains that were Mary's pride: the gay flowers in the window, to which she had given children's names: the few poor pieces of furniture, polished with much loving labour: the shining grate: the foolish china dogs and the little china house between them on the mantelpiece.

The fire was burning brightly, and the kettle was singing on the hob.
Mary's work was finished.