Di raised the lid of the case to close it, and as she did so a piece of yellow paper which had adhered to the faded satin lining of the lid became dislodged, and fell back over the miniature on which it had evidently been originally laid. On the reverse side, now uppermost, was written in a large firm hand the one word, "False." John started. "I never noticed that paper before," he said. "It stuck to the lining of the lid," she replied. "It must have been always there." The soft rain whispered at the lattice. In the silence, one of the plants dropped a few faint petals on the polished floor. "Then he never forgave her," said Di at last, turning her full deep glance upon her companion. "He did not readily forgive." "He must have been a hard man." "I do not think he was hard at first. He became so." "If he became so, he must have had it in him all the time. Trouble could not have brought it out, unless it had been in his nature to start with. Trouble only shows what spirit we are of. Even after she was dead he did not forgive her. He put the miniature where he could look at it; he must have often looked at it. And he left that bitter word always there. He might have taken it away when she died. He might have taken it away when he began to die himself." "I am afraid," said John, "there were shadows on his life even to the very end." "The shadow of an unforgiving spirit." "Yes," said John gently, "but that is a deep one, Di. It numbs the heart. He took it down with him to the grave. If it is true that we can carry nothing away with us out of the world, I hope he left his bitterness of spirit behind." Di did not answer. "That very unforgiveness and bitterness were in him only the seamy side of constancy," said John at last. "He really loved your mother." "If he had really loved her, he would have forgiven her." "Not necessarily. A nobler nature would. But he had not a very noble nature. That is just the sad part of it." There was a long silence. At last Di closed the case, and put it back in the drawer. She held the little slip of paper in her hand, and looked up at John rather wistfully. He took it from her, and, walking down the gallery, dropped it into the wood fire burning at the further end. He came back and stood before her, and their grave eyes met. The growing intimacy between them seemed to have made a stride within the last half-hour, which left the conversation of yesterday miles behind. "Thank you," she said. CHAPTER VII. "Oh, the little more, and how much it is! And the little less, and what worlds away!" R. BROWNING.