In one of the smaller drawers of her dresser was a nightgown of sheerest linen, wonderfully stitched by her own hands.  She hesitated a moment, then opened the drawer.

Tiny bags of sweet herbs fell from the folds as she shook it out.  It was yellowed and musty and as frail as a bit of fine lace, but it did not tear in her hands.  “I will wear it,” she thought, grimly, “as I planned to do, long ago.”

At last she stood before her mirror, the ivory-tinted lace falling away from her neck and shoulders.  Her neck was white and firm, but her right shoulder was deeply, hideously scarred.  “Burned body and burned soul,” she muttered, “and this my wedding night!”

For the first time in her life, she pitied herself, not knowing that self-pity is the first step toward relief from overpowering sorrow.  When detachment is possible, the long, slow healing has faintly, but surely, begun.

She unpinned her veil, took down her heavy white hair, and braided it.  There was no gleam of silver, even in the light—­it was as lustreless as a field of snow upon a dark day.  That done, she stood there, staring at herself in the mirror, and living over, remorselessly, the one day that, like a lightning stroke, had blasted her life.

Her veil slipped, unheeded, from her dresser to the floor.  Leaning forward, she studied her face, that she had once loved, then swiftly learned to hate.  Even on the street, closely veiled, she would not look at a shop window, lest she might see herself reflected in the plate glass, and she had kept the mirror, in her room covered with a cloth,

Since the day she left the hospital, where they all had been so kind to her, no human being, save herself, had seen her face.  She had prayed for death, but had not been more than slightly ill, upborne, as she was, by a great grief which sustained her as surely as an ascetic is kept alive by the passion of his faith.  She hungered now for the sight of her face as she hungered for death, and held the flaring candle aloft that she might see better.

Then a wave of impassioned self-pity swept her like flame.  “The fire was kind,” she said, stubbornly, as though to defend herself from it.  “It showed me the truth.”

She leaned yet closer to the glass, holding the dripping candle on high.  “The fire was kind,” she insisted again.  Then the floodgates opened, and for the first time in all the sorrowful years, she felt the hot tears streaming over her face.  Her hand shook, but she held her candle tightly and leaned so close to the mirror that her white hair brushed its cracked surface.

“The fire was kind,” sobbed Miss Evelina.  “Oh, but the fire was kind!”

II

Miss Mehitable

The slanting sunbeams of late afternoon crept through the cobwebbed window, and Miss Evelina stirred uneasily in her sleep.  The mocking dream vanished and she awoke to feel, as always, the iron, icy hand that unmercifully clutched her heart.  The room was cold and she shivered as she lay beneath her insufficient covering.