It was then that little twelve-year-old Laura Deal turned away from the window where she had been looking down the long double row of cedars and said in a voice so certain that it was almost exalted:

“I don’t think it’s so dreadful. I think it was kind-of nice. Maybe she didn’t miss you. Maybe she didn’t miss you at all. One time grandma told me she was the very happiest when she was living over all her memories. Maybe . . .” She looked around the circle of her relatives,—and there was a little about her of another twelve-year-old Child who stood in the midst of his elders in a Temple,—“maybe she was doing that . . . then.”

THE END

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been fixed.

Inconsistency in hyphenation has been retained.