Eleanor More raised her eyes and looked steadfastly at the other woman. She moved a step—and half held out her hands. But the other did not stir and she crossed the space between them.... They were of equal height. As Richard More turned a startled glance, he was aware of something curiously alike in the two figures—a lift of the head, an air of quiet endurance—but more than all, a kind of dignity—something regal—that stirred vague memories.... When had he stood before and seen two women thus?... Surely in some other life—in some other age and time, he had looked on at a supreme moment of joy and abnegation. For a long moment, the two women confronted each other, gazing deep into the other’s eyes. Then with a little gesture, the Oriental, in her softly rustling garments, moved to the platform and lifted the Chinese coat in her hands and placed it in Eleanor More’s. Were there tears in the eyes that gazed... or only a deep, still joy? Before Richard More could question—the look was gone. The Oriental woman was moving from them and the door closed softly behind her. He watched it swing together, with a sense that something irretrievable had passed—a mystery and wonder—out of life.... Then he turned and saw his wife’s face. She was gazing down at the coat with a look almost of fear. “Her sons and her sons’ sons—forever,” flashed through his mind.... She lifted her eyes and smiled at him, holding out the coat. “Carry it for me, Dick!” He moved quickly toward her. “You are tired?” he said tenderly. “No—I am not tired!” She looked about her. “I am only glad.... It was a long journey, wasn’t it?” She spoke with quiet conviction. “But now it seems short—and easy to find....” She looked about her again. Her eyes rested wonderingly on the shrine of the Buddha and on the shallow platform with its coffin and the three men standing by it.... “I have been here before, I think—and yet...” She passed her hand across her eyes. “I cannot——” “Never mind!” He had taken the coat from her and handed it to the interpreter, who was folding it in slow, skilful hands. The old Chinaman had not stirred from his place, a little to one side. He looked on with impassive gaze. Richard More glanced at him and a sense of something wonted came to him... a sudden vision of the oak-tree with its great roots protruding from the ground, and the low-swung branches. He moved quickly to the platform. From about his neck he removed the long strings of cash and placed them beside the coffin and from his pocket he took handfuls of the Chinese silver “shoes” that had served them on their journey.... They would not need them now.... He piled them about the coffin. The old eyes of the Chinaman gazed straight before him. His lips parted in half-spoken words that the interpreter took up, translating softly.