were gone for her the dreams of girlhood and a woman's hopes. The
bareness and emptiness of coming years froze the blood in her heart,
and when she turned away she lifted her head and bid life do its worst.
Nothing could matter now.

Darker than the days of battle were the days of peace, and she made
her father close the house and go away. For years they wandered where
they would, but always were back for the month of June; and no one
remembered that the twenty-first was the date of Colleen McMasters's
death, or know that on that day his grave was visited, and there alone
a woman yielded to the memories that ever filled her heart.

When her father died life in Yorkburg was impossible. With a tilt of
her chin at its dulness, a wave of her hand at its narrowness, and
eyes closed to its happy content, she had gone back to London and
reopened the house which had become known for her sharp wit, her
freedom of speech, and her disregard of persons who had for
commendation but inherited position; and there for years had what
she called headquarters, but never thought of or spoke of as home.

She pulled her chair closer to the window and, with elbows on its sill
and chin on her crossed hands, looked out into the soft silence of the
night.

"What a time for seeing clearly, seeing things just as they are, this
midnight is, Gibbie Gault! In the darkness wasted time stares you in the
face and facts refuse to turn their backs. And you thought once the
waste was all the other way--thought you were wise to stand off and
watch the little comedies and tragedies, the pitiful strivings for place
and power, the sordid struggles for bread and meat, the stupid ones for