As she sat in the old cabriolet beside the father of her dead lover,

again there came to Octavie the terrible sense of loss which had

assailed her so often before. The soul of her youth clamored for its

rights; for a share in the world's glory and exultation. She leaned back

and drew her veil a little closer about her face. It was an old black

veil of her Aunt Tavie's. A whiff of dust from the road had blown in and

she wiped her cheeks and her eyes with her soft, white handkerchief,

a homemade handkerchief, fabricated from one of her old fine muslin

petticoats.

"Will you do me the favor, Octavie," requested the judge in the

courteous tone which he never abandoned, "to remove that veil which you

wear. It seems out of harmony, someway, with the beauty and promise of

the day."

The young girl obediently yielded to her old companion's wish and

unpinning the cumbersome, sombre drapery from her bonnet, folded it

neatly and laid it upon the seat in front of her.

"Ah! that is better; far better!" he said in a tone expressing unbounded

relief. "Never put it on again, dear." Octavie felt a little hurt; as if

he wished to debar her from share and parcel in the burden of affliction

which had been placed upon all of them. Again she drew forth the old

muslin handkerchief.

They had left the big road and turned into a level plain which had

formerly been an old meadow. There were clumps of thorn trees here and

there, gorgeous in their spring radiance. Some cattle were grazing off

in the distance in spots where the grass was tall and luscious. At the

far end of the meadow was the towering lilac hedge, skirting the lane

that led to Judge Pillier's house, and the scent of its heavy blossoms

met them like a soft and tender embrace of welcome.

As they neared the house the old gentleman placed an arm around the

girl's shoulders and turning her face up to him he said: "Do you not

think that on a day like this, miracles might happen? When the whole

earth is vibrant with life, does it not seem to you, Octavie, that

heaven might for once relent and give us back our dead?" He spoke very

low, advisedly, and impressively. In his voice was an old quaver which

was not habitual and there was agitation in every line of his visage.

She gazed at him with eyes that were full of supplication and a certain

terror of joy.

They had been driving through the lane with the towering hedge on one

side and the open meadow on the other. The horses had somewhat quickened

their lazy pace. As they turned into the avenue leading to the house, a

whole choir of feathered songsters fluted a sudden torrent of melodious

greeting from their leafy hiding places.




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