The latter's eyes regarded the open morocco box on the dresser, and noted the lustrous pearls lying on their white velvet. "That necklace means something special, I suppose," she thought, and winked away big drops from her own sight. "Maybe it'll do you good to cry, Linda," she said. "Did your father give you the beads, dear?" she added tenderly, and the smooth hand clutched hers tighter. After a minute more of the sobbing silence, Miss Belinda reached out her free hand and closed the morocco box. "I wouldn't look over these things yet," she said; and Linda freed her hand, and crossing her arms on the dresser rested her head upon them. "I never did anything for Father," she declared in a choked voice. Miss Barry thought this was probably true, and she winked hard in a big struggle with her New England conscience. "He didn't think that way," she replied at last. "Yes. Yes, he thought that way." "What do you mean, child?" "He left me." The words seemed wrenched from the depths of grief. Again Miss Barry's conscience objected to making the sweeping contradiction for which the occasion called. "How could he help that?" she asked at last, gently. "He couldn't help it, but perhaps I could have helped it," came the weary answer. "If I had been more to him--filled a larger place in his life--been a companion instead of just his pet--" Miss Barry felt coerced to extend meager comfort. "But your school, Linda. I know your time was all taken up." "Yes, because I let it be. I've wasted four years when I was old enough to have been a companion to Father." "Why, you had visits with him once a week. Supposing you had gone East to college." "That is something, no doubt," returned Linda, slowly lifting swollen eyes and looking listlessly out of the window; "but I didn't make myself count with him." "Nonsense, child," said Miss Barry, trying to speak stoutly. "That's morbid, isn't it?" Linda shook her head slowly, still with the dreary eyes looking into space. Miss Barry sank into the nearest chair, and regarded the stricken girl helplessly. "I know you suffer, too, Aunt Belinda," said the girl, at last. "I know I'm selfish, but life--everything--seems blotted out for me. It is only once in a while that I can feel anything."