Dawn’s heart beat high with hope. She had caught but a glimpse of Charles’s mother that morning, and did not remember clearly how she looked. The young bride’s heart went out to her with a double love, because her own lost mother had been so dear. Mrs. Winthrop was lying in a great bed with a rose-colored canopy. The bed-curtains were of white starched dimity, and the white linen all about her made her look like some delicate flower in an elaborate vase. The canopy threw sea-shell tints on the delicate complexion that had not darkened in spite of years, and the rosy light from the open fire on the other side of the room played over her beautiful white hair that was carefully arranged in curls on her cheeks. The bed-gown she wore was of homespun linen, fine and elaborate in make; her small, patrician hands were glowing with rare jewels. The delicate face was that of a beautiful woman; beautiful yet, in spite of the fact that she had grown old; beautiful and proud, yet lovable. She looked like some rare bit of Dresden china, perfect of its kind, and perfectly cared for. Dawn paused on the threshold shyly and admired her. Then she came forward at Cordelia’s introduction, but, instead of taking the delicate hand that was held out coldly to greet her, she stooped over impulsively and kissed her new mother. She had never done such a thing to any one since her own mother died, but she wanted to give her best to Charles’s mother, she was so glad to-night. "Sit down," the high-bred voice commanded politely. "Yes, there in the chair where I can see you. Cordelia, you need not remain." Dawn sat down, and there was a pause until the door closed after Cordelia. Somehow, the young wife’s heart began to sink a little. The room looked so very large, the bed was so high and big, the beautiful old lady so small and far away, and her smile was so like a picture. Madam Winthrop turned her handsome eyes with an uncordial coolness upon her new daughter-in-law, and looked her through. She was a loving and lovable woman at times, but she did not seem so now. "I have sent for you"—she spoke the words with deliberation and incisiveness—"to tell you that I forgive you." Dawn gasped, and looked at her in amazement; but the lady paid no heed to her, only further to fix her with her eyes, and went on: "I did not think it would be possible at first, but I have conquered my feelings, and am now willing to forgive you." Dawn could do nothing but look at the woman in horror. Her tongue seemed tied. At last she stammered out: "For what?"