Saved And Lost

Rose and Allison were back upon their old friendly footing, to all intents and purposes. Never by word or look did Rose betray herself; never by the faintest hint did Allison suggest that their relation to each other had in any way been changed. He was frankly glad to have her with him, urged her to come earlier and to stay later, and gratefully accepted every kindness she offered.

Perhaps he had forgotten--Rose rather thought he had, but her self- revelation stood before her always like a vivid, scarlet hour in a procession of grey days. Yet the sting and shame of it were curiously absent, for nothing could exceed the gentle courtesy and deference that Allison instinctively accorded her. He saw her always as a thing apart; a goddess who, through divine pity, had stooped for an instant to be a woman--and had swiftly returned to her pedestal.

Sustained by the joy of service, Rose asked no more. Only to plan little surprises for him, to anticipate every unspoken wish, to keep him cheery and hopeful, to read or play to him without being asked--these things were as the life-blood to her heart.

She had blossomed, too, into a new beauty. The forty years had put lines of silver into her hair, but had been powerless to do more. Her lovely face, where the colour came and went, the fleeting dimple at the corner of her mouth and the crimson curve of her lips were eloquent with the finer, more subtle charm of maturity. Her shining eyes literally transfigured her. In their dark depths was a mysterious exaltation, as from some secret, holy rapture too great for words.