"And then"--here Peneluna caught her breath--"then last night he called from his winder and I came. He said, holding my hand like it was the last thing left for him to hold: 'I didn't think I had a right to you, Pen'--he used to call me Pen--'after what I did. And I've just paid for my evil-doing up to the end, not taking comfort and forgiveness--just paying!' I never let on, Mary-Clare, how I'd paid, too. Men folks are blind-spotted, we've got to take 'em as they are. Philander thought he had worked out his soul's salvation while he was starving me, soul and body, but I never let on and he died smiling and saying, 'The food was terrible staying, Pen, terrible staying.'" Mary-Clare could see mistily the long, rigid figure on the bed, her eyes ached with unshed tears; her heart throbbed like a heavy pain. Here was something she had never understood; a thing so real and strong that no earthly touch could kill it. What was it? But Peneluna was talking on, her poor old face twitching. "And now, Mary-Clare, him and me is man and wife before God and you. You are terrible understanding, child. With all the fol-de-rol the old doctor laid on yer, he laid his own spirit of knowing things on yer, too. Suffering learns folks the understanding power. I reckon the old doctor had had his share 'fore he came to the Forest--but how you got to knowing things, child, and being tender and patient, 'stead of hot and full of hate, I don't know! Now read, soft and low, so only us three can hear--the last service." Solemnly, with sweet intonations, Mary-Clare read on and on. Again the bird came to the window ledge, looked in, and then flew off singing jubilantly. Peneluna smiled a fleeting wintry smile and closed her eyes; she seemed to be following the bird--or was it old Philander's soul? When the service came to an end, Peneluna arose and with grave dignity walked from the room, Mary-Clare following. "Now the Pointers can have their way 'cording to rule, Mary-Clare," she whispered, "but you and me understand, child. And listen to this, I ain't much of a muchness, but come thick or thin, Mary-Clare, I'll do my first and last for you 'cause of the secret lying 'twixt us." Then Mary-Clare asked the question that was hurting her with its weight. "Peneluna, was it love, the thing that made you glad, through it all, just to wait?" "I don't rightly know, Mary-Clare. It was something too big for me to call by name, but I just couldn't act different and kill it, not even when her as once was French made me feel I oughter. I wouldn't darst harm that feeling I had, child." "And it paid?" "I don't know. I only know I was glad, when he called last night, that I was waiting." Then Mary-Clare raised her face and kissed the old, troubled, fumbling lips. The thing, too big for the woman, was too big for the girl; but she knew, whatever it was, it must not be hurt. "What are you going to do now?" she asked.