warm, tightening grasp upon his fingers; he looked up, and his eyes filled and hers, he saw, were brimming too.
They walked together, later in the day, up the hill to the small, white house which had been Caleb Stafford's. Alan had seen the house before but, not knowing then whether the man who had owned it had or had not been his father, he had merely looked at it from the outside. There had been a small garden filled with flowers before it then; now yard and roofs were buried deep in snow. The woman who came to the door was willing to show them through the house; it had only five rooms. One of those upon the second floor was so much larger and pleasanter than the rest that they became quite sure that it was the one in which Alan had been born, and where his young mother soon afterward had died.
They were very quiet as they stood looking about.
"I wish we could have known her," Constance said.
The woman, who had showed them about, had gone to another room and left them alone.
"There seems to have been no picture of her and nothing of hers left here that any one can tell me about; but," Alan choked, "it's good to be able to think of her as I can now."
"I know," Constance said. "When you were away, I used to think of you as finding out about her and—and I wanted to be with you. I'm glad I'm with you now, though you don't need me any more!"
"Not need you!"
"I mean—no one can say anything against her now!"
Alan drew nearer her, trembling.
