might help her. It might even help her to get back her grip upon herself and face life again."
"You mean," asked Evalani in a hushed voice, "that she is not quite herself now?"
"Not exactly that," said Dick; "But she is in a condition verging upon melancholia, from dwelling always upon that dreadful uncertainty as to what actually happened. If she could be given just a shred of something definite—if you could see her and tell her something about that last interview with her daughter, the day before you were married—"
But the girl threw up both hands as if to ward off something. "No, no, I cannot!" she cried; "Oh, I cannot do it!"
Dick bent nearer. "Not even for the sake of that poor, grieving woman?"
"I cannot!" cried Evalani, again. "You would not have me break my faith?"
Dick spoke gravely. "If there was a promise between you and one who has gone on, can you be sure that she would not gladly release you, if she could know how her mother is suffering, and how she will continue to suffer as long as she lives, unless she has some word to relieve the awful uncertainty?"
"But I cannot! I tell you I cannot! Oh, you don't understand!"
From the farther corner of the lanai, where the shade lay deepest and where the old grandmother
