"I left her to die alone," he said. He grasped Pink's little hand till he hurt the child, and she wrenched it away. He did not even notice this, and his empty hand retained its shape as the little girl's fingers had left it. "I went on a gunning trip. And she asked me not to go. And she died alone." ... The clergyman's voice intoning sacred words smote upon and did not soothe this comfortless man. "_He that believeth on Me._" ... "Jean believed on me. And I failed her. And she is dead." Pink crept up to his side again, and put her fingers back into his still outstretched hand. Perhaps it was the child's touch; perhaps--God knew--it was some effluence from the unseen life within whose mystery the deathless love of the dead wife had ceased from the power of expression; but something at that instant poured vigor into the abjectly miserable man. His first consciousness that Jean was not dead rushed back upon him at the mouth of her grave. It seemed, indeed, no grave, but a couch cut in a catafalque of autumn leaves. "There is some mistake," he thought, as he had thought before. He lifted his bared head to the November sky in a kind of exaltation. This did not fail him until he came back into his desolate home. He stood staring at the swept and garnished house. The disarray of the funeral was quite removed. His wife's room was ordered as usual; its windows stood open. Some of the dreadful flowers were still left about the house. He pulled them savagely from their places and threw them away. The servants stood crying in the hall; and the strange professional nurse, who had remained with the baby, came up and offered him the child--somewhat as if it had been a Bible text, he thought. He took the little thing into his arms, piously; but the baby began to cry, and hit him in the eyes with both fists. "It's after her he do be cryin'," said Molly. Avery handed her the child in silence. As he turned to go upstairs, Pink ran after him. "Papa," said Pink, "do you expect Mummer Dee to make a very _long_ visit in heaven? I should fink it was time for her to come home, by supper, shouldn't you, Papa?" In their own rooms Marshall Avery sat him down alone. He bolted all the doors, and walked from limit to limit of the narrow space--his room and hers, with the door open between that he used to close because the baby bothered him. It stood wide open now. In his room some of his neckties and clothes were lying about; Jean used to attend to his things herself, even after she was ill--too ill, perhaps; he remembered reminding her rather positively if any of these trifles were neglected; once she had said, "I 'm not _quite_ strong enough to-day." On his bureau stood her photograph, framed in silver--a fair picture, in a white gown, with lace about the throat. It had Jean's own eyes; but nothing ever gave the expression of her mouth. He stood looking at her picture.