"But I must not complain," she went on, with an effort to smile at Miss Amory's ugly old intelligently sympathetic countenance. "It must have been all over in a second, and he could have felt no pain at all. Death by accident is always an awful shock to those left behind; but it must scarcely be like death to--those who go. He was quite well; he had just bought the pistol and took it out to show to Mr. Baird. Mr. Baird himself did not understand how it happened." "It is nearly always so--that no one quite sees how it is done," Miss Amory answered. "Do not let yourself think of it." She was sitting quite near to Mrs. Latimer, and she leaned forward and put her hand over the cold, little, shrivelled one lying on the lap of the mourning-dress. "Though it was so sudden," she said, "it was an end not unlike Margery's--the slipping out of life without realising that the last hour had come." "Yes; I have thought that, too." She looked up at the portrait on the wall--the portrait of the bright girl-face. Her own face lighted into a smile. "It is so strange to think that they are together again," she said. "They will have so much to tell each other." "Yes," said Miss Amory; "yes." She got up herself and went and stood before the picture. Mrs. Latimer rose and came and stood beside her. "Mr. Baird has been with me every day," she said. "He has been like a son to me." A carriage drew up before the house, and, as the occupant got out, both women turned to look. Mrs. Latimer turned a shade paler. "They have got back from the funeral," she said. "It is Mr. Baird." Then came the ring at the front door, the footsteps in the passage, and Baird came into the room. He was haggard and looked broken and old, but his manner was very gentle when he went to the little old woman and took her hands. "I think he scarcely knew he had so many friends at Janney's Mills," he said. "A great many of them came. When I turned away the earth was covered with flowers." He drew her to a chair and sat by her. She put her white head on his arm and cried. "He was always so sad," she said. "He thought people never cared for him. But he was good--he was good. I felt sure they must love him a little. It will be better for him--_now_." Miss Amory spoke from her place before the fire, where she stood rigidly, with a baffled look on her face. Her voice was low and hoarse. "Yes," she said, with eager pitifulness. "It will be better now." The little mother lifted her wet face, still clinging to Baird's arm as she looked up at him. "And I have it to remember," she sobbed, "that you--_you_ were his friend, and that for years you made him happier than he had ever been. He said you gave him a reason for living." Baird was ashen pale. She stooped and softly kissed the back of his hand.