on one of cissy’s wakeful nights, she told valancy her poor little story. they were sitting by the open window. cissy could not get her breath lying down that night. an inglorious gibbous moon was hanging over the wooded hills and in its spectral light cissy looked frail and lovely and incredibly young. a child. it did not seem possible that she could have lived through all the passion and pain and shame of her story.

“he was stopping at the hotel across the lake. he used to come over in his canoe at night—we met in the pines down the shore. he was a young college student—his father was a rich man in toronto. oh, valancy, i didn’t mean to be bad—i didn’t, indeed. but i loved him so—i love him yet—i’ll always love him. and i—didn’t know—some things. i didn’t—understand. then his father came and took him away. and—after a little—i found out—oh, valancy,—i was so frightened. i didn’t know what to do. i wrote him—and he came. he—he said he would marry me, valancy.”

“and why—and why?——”

“oh, valancy, he didn’t love me any more. i saw that at a glance. he—he was just offering to marry me because he thought he ought to—because he was sorry for me. he wasn’t bad—but he was so young—and what was i that he should keep on loving me?”

“never mind making excuses for him,” said valancy a bit shortly. “so you wouldn’t marry him?”

“i couldn’t—not when he didn’t love me any more. somehow—i can’t explain—it seemed a worse thing to do than—the other. he—he argued a little—but he went away. do you think i did right, valancy?”

“yes, i do. you did right. but he——”

“don’t blame him, dear. please don’t. let’s not talk about him at all. there’s no need. i wanted to tell you how it was—i didn’t want you to think me bad——”

“i never did think so.”

“yes, i felt that—whenever you came. oh, valancy, what you’ve been to me! i can never tell you—but god will bless you for it. i know he will—‘with what measure ye mete.’”

cissy sobbed for a few minutes in valancy’s arms. then she wiped her eyes.

“well, that’s almost all. i came home. i wasn’t really so very unhappy. i suppose i should have been—but i wasn’t. father wasn’t hard on me. and my baby was so sweet while he lived. i was even happy—i loved him so much, the dear little thing. he was so sweet, valancy—with such lovely blue eyes—and little rings of pale gold hair like silk floss—and tiny dimpled hands. i used to bite his satin-smooth little face all over—softly, so as not to hurt him, you know——”

“i know,” said valancy, wincing. “i know—a woman always knows—and dreams——”

“and he was all mine. nobody else had any claim on him. when he died, oh, valancy, i thought i must die too—i didn’t see how anybody could endure such anguish and live. to see his dear little eyes and know he would never open them again—to miss his warm little body nestled against mine at night and think of him sleeping alone and cold, his wee face under the hard frozen earth. it was so awful for the first year—after that it was a little easier, one didn’t keep thinking ‘this day last year’—but i was so glad when i found out i was dying.”

“‘who could endure life if it were not for the hope of death?’” murmured valancy softly—it was of course a quotation from some book of john foster’s.

“i’m glad i’ve told you all about it,” sighed cissy. “i wanted you to know.”

cissy died a few nights after that. roaring abel was away. when valancy saw the change that had come over cissy’s face she wanted to telephone for the doctor. but cissy wouldn’t let her.

“valancy, why should you? he can do nothing for me. i’ve known for several days that—this—was near. let me die in peace, dear—just holding your hand. oh, i’m so glad you’re here. tell father good-bye for me. he’s always been as good to me as he knew how—and barney. somehow, i think that barney——”

but a spasm of coughing interrupted and exhausted her. she fell asleep when it was over, still holding to valancy’s hand. valancy sat there in the silence. she was not frightened—or even sorry. at sunrise cissy died. she opened her eyes and looked past valancy at something—something that made her smile suddenly and happily. and, smiling, she died.

valancy crossed cissy’s hands on her breast and went to the open window. in the eastern sky, amid the fires of sunrise, an old moon was hanging—as slender and lovely as a new moon. valancy had never seen an old, old moon before. she watched it pale and fade until it paled and faded out of sight in the living rose of day. a little pool in the barrens shone in the sunrise like a great golden lily.

but the world suddenly seemed a colder place to valancy. again nobody needed her. she was not in the least sorry cecilia was dead. she was only sorry for all her suffering in life. but nobody could ever hurt her again. valancy had always thought death dreadful. but cissy had died so quietly—so pleasantly. and at the very last—something—had made up to her for everything. she was lying there now, in her white sleep, looking like a child. beautiful! all the lines of shame and pain gone.

roaring abel drove in, justifying his name. valancy went down and told him. the shock sobered him at once. he slumped down on the seat of his buggy, his great head hanging.

“cissy dead—cissy dead,” he said vacantly. “i didn’t think it would ‘a’ come so soon. dead. she used to run down the lane to meet me with a little white rose stuck in her hair. cissy used to be a pretty little girl. and a good little girl.”

“she has always been a good little girl,” said valancy.