During the monotonous days following the funeral, Miss Barry and her niece dwelt alone in the big, echoing house. Harriet had gone home to her husband and child. The papers still resounded with the Barry tragedy, but it was not difficult to keep them from Linda, whose stormy grief had changed to utter listlessness. One morning Miss Barry sat by the window in her niece's room with some mending, while Linda, in her white négligée, dragged herself about the apartment as if all the spring in her supple young body had grown flaccid. Occasionally the older woman glanced over the rim of her glasses at the girl's expressionless face. Miss Belinda herself felt numbed by shock, but there was present with her the instinctive necessity which all had felt, of standing between Linda and a complete understanding of the situation. Ever since the girl's breakfast tray had been removed that morning they had remained here in silence. "There's one way I can't make any mistake," thought the aunt, "and that's by holding my tongue. She knows I'm here, and that if I can do anything for her I want to do it." The housekeeper had answered her appeal for something to keep her hands busy, and so she worked while Linda moved languidly about, apparently forgetful of her presence. While they still remained thus, a card was brought up. Miss Barry took it from the maid. "Bertram King, Linda," she said. "Will you see him?" She was surprised by the life which sprang for a moment into the girl's eyes. "No," answered Linda clearly. Her aunt stood undecidedly, the linen in one hand and the card in the other. "Shall I see him, then?" she asked. "I don't care, Aunt Belinda." The maid waited, casting curious glances from one to the other. "Henry says Mr. King's been wonderful," said Miss Barry, after a moment of waiting. "The greatest help in the world: always kept his head, and thought of the right thing to do, though he was suffering so." "I'm not--" Linda tried to reply, but her lips quivered, and she bit them. "I can't see him," she ended abruptly. Miss Barry nodded comprehension. The associations would naturally be overwhelming. "I'll go down, then," she said, sighing, and laying down her work. "I suppose I shall tell him you thank him for all he has done, and for the flowers every day." "No." Linda faced her aunt, and again life leaped in her eyes. "I'm not sending any message. Remember that." Miss Barry frowned in perplexity, thinking of Mrs. Porter's confidences concerning King. "Oh, law," she thought wearily, "I suppose she's refused him." So downstairs the good lady went, her black dress trailing after her, to the reception room, where stood a hollow-eyed young man. His face had become familiar to her in the past days. "Good-morning, Mr. King." "Good-morning, Miss Barry." His eyes interrogated her hungrily. "I suppose I should apologize for coming at this hour, but I'm so anxious to know how Linda is." "She's up and about. Sit down."