"If I believed in a Creator" (it was the man who spoke), "I should want to know what pleasure he found in creating that poor little woman." The woman did not answer as she looked at him. "Yet," he went on, "I'm selfish enough to be glad that she lived. If I had not known Miss Quincey, I should not have known you." "And I," said the woman, and her face was rosy under the touch of grief, "if I had not loved Miss Quincey, I could not have loved you." They seemed to think Miss Quincey had justified her existence. Perhaps she had. And the woman took the roses that she wore in her belt and laid them on the breast of the grave. She stood for a minute studying the effect with a shamefaced look, as if she had mocked the dead woman with flowers flung from her wedding-wreath of youth and joy. Then she turned to the man; the closing bell tolled, and they passed through the iron gates into the ways of the living. THE END End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Superseded, by May Sinclair