“Ah, how much better for us all if he had loved sweet Mae, instead of that proud, fickle beauty, Viola Van Lew!” she thought, with unavailing regret. Then came the journalistic triumphs of that beloved son that made his name a household word, followed so swiftly by the tragedy that left her childless and alone in the world. At first she could not believe that her darling was dead. “There must be some mistake!” she cried, in her terrible agony of bereavement. Surely the newspapers would begin to deny the story soon, for news from the seat of war was often unreliable. And she did not give up looking for a letter from Rolfe; but the postman on his daily rounds passed the gate each day without a glance at the tearful face glued to the window-pane, and the long days slipped away, and there was no official contradiction of the news of Rolfe’s death, while the newspapers daily filled columns on the atrocities of his murderer. Then the sensation yielded to another one; the bright spring days advanced joyfully, as if there were no such things as death and sorrow in the big, round world; the bare trees put on garbings of tender, green leaves; the fragrant hyacinths bloomed in the green plat before the front door, the bereaved mother gave up hope, and permitted Mae to choose for her some somber mourning gowns. Only that morning she had had such a start when the postman opened the gate at last and came in; but it was only a letter for Mae from some of her distant relatives, inviting her for a visit down into the country. “You must go, my dear. It will be such a pleasant change for you from this sorrowful house,” her aunt said. “And leave you here all alone? That would be cruel!” cried Mae, generously, though her heart had secretly leaped at the thought of needed change of scene. “You shall go, darling, because you need a change so much. Your rosy cheeks have grown pale, and your bright eyes dim, with confinement and loneliness,” insisted Mrs. Maxwell; and they were talking it over that afternoon at the window together when the carriage stopped in the street and the graceful form in heavy black came in at the gate and up the narrow walk to the door. The poor mother caught her breath with a gasp of pain as Mae exclaimed, bitterly: “It is poor Rolfe’s widow! How strange that she has put on mourning! Will you go to the door, aunt? Or shall I?” She would have wondered yet more at Viola’s wearing black if she had known what opposition she had had to encounter at home. Judge Van Lew and Aunt Edwina had both been dead set against it, but her strong will had carried the day. They had not dared oppose her too much, for Viola had been so near the borders of the grave in her month’s illness, and she was still so weak and nervous they had delayed as long as possible the telling her of Rolfe Maxwell’s death. Only two weeks ago they had informed her as cautiously as possible of the dreadful tragedy of his taking off.