And he saw her through the window from Miss Judy's gate. The poor old white curtain, with its quaint border of little snowballs, had been pushed back as far as it would go, much farther than it ever had been before when Miss Judy was lying in the high old bed. There was too desperate need for every wandering breeze, for every straying breath of air, for appearances to be remembered. Miss Judy herself could no longer guard the sacred privacy of that spotless chamber. She could no longer even blush faintly when the doctor laid his shaggy head against her hard-laboring little heart, listening for its weak fluttering, and hearing the soft knell of the pericardial murmur. For even this, which rings so harshly from sterner breasts, rang softly from Miss Judy's gentle breast. Yet it rang unmistakably, nevertheless, and there was nothing more that the doctor could do--nothing save to grieve, and he never stood idle for futile grieving when the suffering needed him elsewhere. After the doctor was gone to other duties, only Miss Sophia sat at the bedside, striving piteously to realize what was happening; and Doris alone hovered silently over it and flitted softly around it; doing the little that she found to do, and holding back her tears for Miss Judy's sake. But many others who loved Miss Judy were already gathering, and waited in the passage, looking out at the passers-by and shaking their heads speechlessly and sadly at those who paused at the gate to make anxious inquiry. Lynn Gordon did not enter the house, and he quickly turned his eyes away from the uncurtained window. Even his reverend gaze seemed a profanation of the holiness of that quiet, shadowed old room, whence the soul of a saint was so near taking its flight from the earth. He crossed the narrow strip of front yard with noiseless steps and sat down on a broken bench under the window. He could hear Miss Sophia's heavy breathing as the little sister tried to understand; and he caught the soft rustle of Doris's skirts as the girl moved now and then in her loving ministrations; he could almost hear the swaying of the fan in her hand. Presently he became conscious of a familiar scent--faint, pure, delicate, like the spirit of perfume. He did not know at first what it was, but it seemed to float out through the open window; and after a little while he knew it to be the old-fashioned, natural, wholesome sweetness of dried rose leaves, the fragrance which had always clung round Miss Judy's life, the fragrance which would forever cling round her memory.