Sylvia did not hear.  She assented absently.  She thought, in spite of herself, of the good-fortune which was to befall them.  She imagined herself mistress of the old White homestead.  They would, of course, rent their own little cottage and go to live in the big house.  She imagined herself looking through the treasures which Abrahama would leave behind her—­then a monstrous loathing of herself seized her.  She resolved that the very next morning she would go over and help Miss Babcock, that she would put all consideration of material benefits from her mind.  She brought her thoughts with an effort to the article which Henry had just read.  She could recall his last words.

“Yes, I think you are right,” said she.  “I think criminals ought not to be protected.  You are right, Henry.  I think myself we ought to have a doctor called from Alford to-morrow, if she is no better, and have a consultation.  Dr. Wallace is good, but he is only one, and sometimes another doctor has different ideas, and she may get help.”

“Yes, I think there ought to be a consultation,” said Henry.  “I will see about it to-morrow.  I will go over there with you myself to-morrow morning.  I think the police ought not to protect the criminals, but the people who are injured by them.”

“Then there would be no criminals.  They would have no chance,” said Sylvia, sagely.  “Yes, I agree with you, Henry, there ought to be a consultation.”

She looked at Henry and he at her, and each saw in the other’s face that same ignoble joy, and that same resentment and denial of it.

Neither slept that night.  They were up early the next morning.  Sylvia was getting breakfast and Henry was splitting wood out in the yard.  Presently he came stumbling in.  “Come out here,” he said.  Sylvia followed him to the door.  They stepped out in the dewy yard and stood listening.  Beneath their feet was soft, green grass strewn with tiny spheres which reflected rainbows.  Over their heads was a wonderful sky of the clearest angelic blue.  This sky seemed to sing with bell-notes.

“The bell is tolling,” whispered Henry.  They counted from that instant.  When the bell stopped they looked at each other.

“That’s her age,” said Sylvia.

“Yes,” said Henry.

Chapter III

The weather was wonderful on Abrahama White’s funeral day.  The air had at once the keen zest of winter and the languor of summer.  One moment one perceived warm breaths of softly undulating pines, the next it was as if the wind blew over snow.  The air at once stimulated and soothed.  One breathing it realized youth and an endless vista of dreams ahead, and also the peace of age, and of work well done and deserving the reward of rest.  There was something in this air which gave the inhaler the certainty of victory, the courage of battle and of unassailable youth.  Even old people, pausing to notice the streamer of crape on Abrahama White’s door, felt triumphant and undaunted.  It did not seem conceivable, upon such a day, that that streamer would soon flaunt for them.