Marcia Haddon was looking at the young woman before her with a new and strange feeling of curiosity, trying after her own ancient creed to be fair, to be just. She was trying now to understand, to find as much good as possible in the careless self-accusation of the young person who spoke thus artlessly and directly. But that young person went on now somewhat bitterly. “We’re a good ways apart, Mrs. Haddon, I expect I hadn’t a thing to start with but my laugh and my looks—they would have left me comfortable if I’d never met your husband. If he’s gone now, all the better for me now, like enough, and all the better for him—and maybe for you too. You don’t know about my sort. Well, I don’t ask that of you. There’s milk, and fresh milk, and bottled milk, and certified bottled milk. You’re strictly respectable—you’re certified—you’re the sort that’s been taken care of all their lives. Me—I’m uncertified, I guess. It doesn’t make much difference to anybody now, does it? I told—him—another man—I was going over with the Red Cross.” Still striving to be just in spite of all, Marcia Haddon held her speech, looking gravely at the other, who now went on, unsparing alike of herself and her hearer. “It’s late to give you a tip about how to handle a husband—but I could have——” “I’m afraid not,” said Marcia Haddon. “I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do for me. I’m afraid—well, I suppose I ought to try to be fair, even now.” She could not refer directly in speech to the relations between the dead yonder and the living here. “That never gets anybody very much,” said Polly Pendleton. “You remind me of that chap that came into my place in New York—Joslin, his name was—he’s the grandson of this old lady that brought us in here!” Now for the first time the slow red of anger rose to Marcia Haddon’s face. “I think you’ve said quite sufficient about that and many other matters,” said she. “You certainly can’t discuss Mr. Joslin with me—I’ll not have it. In fact, I’m not sure that you can discuss anything with me any longer.” “I’ve asked no odds of you,” she flared out, at last. “If you took my husband from me, you took my leavings—there was nothing about him that I cared for any more. Anything worth trying for—anything worth fighting for—why, yes—I don’t know that I’d need fear you so much. You came into my life not by my invitation, but I’m not so sure you need ask me so much for forgiveness. What have I to forgive—or you? He’s dead now—he’s gone from both of us. You’re welcome to what you had.” Her gaze unconsciously passed beyond the window, up to the hillside where lay a little mound, a rude stone at the head. “We’ll not say anything evil about him now—more than we have. He’s found the way out, even if we haven’t as yet for ourselves. Our ways must part, of course. But you can’t advise me and you can’t glory over me. You’ve had my leavings. Is that quite plain? “And now the way is plain for all of us—at last.” Her voice was trembling.