"Then," said the Doctor, very gently, "when you have forgiven, the line will be blotted out. The one on the other side of it may be out of your reach forever, but the line will be gone." The idea was new to her, that she must forgive. She thought of it long afterward, when the house was as quiet as its sleeping mistress, and the pale stars faded to pearl at the hour of dawn. The third day came; the end of that pitiful period in which we wait, blindly hoping that the miracle of resurrection may be given once more, and the stone be rolled away from our dead. It was Doctor Brinkerhoff who had the casket closed before the strangers came, and afterward he told Margaret. "She would be thankful," Margaret assured him, and his eyes filled. "Yes," he answered, huskily, "I believe she would." They sat together at the head of the stairs, out of sight, and yet within hearing. Lynn sat at one end, still perplexed, and shuddering at the unpleasantness of it all. His mother's hand was in his, and with her left arm she supported Iris, who leaned heavily against her shoulder, broken-hearted. On the other side of Iris was Doctor Brinkerhoff, austere and alone. From below came the wonderful words of the burial service: "I am the resurrection and the life. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live." It was followed by a beautiful tribute to Aunt Peace--to the countless good deeds of her five and seventy years. Then there was silence, broken by the muffled sound of a string being tightened to harmonise with the piano. Swiftly upon the discordant note, the voice of a violin, strong, clear, and surpassingly sweet, rose in an _Ave Maria_. Margaret started to her feet. "What is it?" she whispered, hoarsely. "Mother," said Lynn, in a low tone, "don't. It is only Herr Kaufmann. We asked him to play." "The Cremona!" she muttered. "The Cremona--here--to-day!" She lay back in her chair with her eyes closed and her mouth quivering. Lynn held her hand tightly, and Iris breathed hard. Doctor Brinkerhoff listened intently, his heart rejoicing in the beauty of it, because it was done for her. Deep chords, full and splendid, sounded an ultimate triumph over Death. The music counselled acceptance, resignation, because of something that lay beyond--indefinite, yet complete restitution, when the time of its fulfilment should be at hand. Beside it, the individual grief sank into insignificance--it was the sorrow of the world demanding payment for itself from the world's joy. Something vast and appealing took the place of the finite passion, seeking hungrily for its own ends, and in the greatness of it, with heart uplifted, Margaret forgave the dead. XIII To Iris "Daughter of the Marshes, the winds have told me you are sad. If I could, I would bear it for you, but there is no way by which one of us may take another's burden.