It grieved her that she had never loved her mother--not as one ought to love one's mother, unquestioningly, unreasoningly, as a natural instinct.

For a moment a strange thought came to her, and swiftly, almost guiltily, she stole across, and drawing back a corner of the blind, examined closely her own features in the glass, comparing them with the face of the dead woman, thus called upon to be a silent witness for or against the living.

Joan drew a sigh of relief and let fall the blind.

There could be no misreading the evidence.

Death had smoothed away the lines, given back youth.