"Yes. Why?"
"Have you ever seen a woman you would be willing for him to marry?"
"Only one."
"And she--?"
"Rose," said the Colonel, softly. "Your Rose."
"I've felt that way, too," whispered Madame. There was silence for the
space of a heart-beat, then she cried out sharply: "But it isn't Rose--
it's Isabel!"
"What?" he cried, startled for once out of his usual calm. "That child?"
"'That child' is past twenty, and he is only ten years older. There was
fifteen years' difference between you and--" Madame forebore to speak
the name of the dead and beloved wife.
Colonel Kent turned his dim blue eyes toward the hills. Behind them the
sun was setting, and he could guess that the gold of the Spring
afternoon was scattered like star dust over the little sunken grave. He
left Madame and went to the end of the veranda, where he stood for a few
moments, facing the West. Then he came back.
"Francesca," he said, slowly, "you and I are on the Western slope and
have been for a long time. The Valley of the Shadow lies at the foot of
the hill and the descent is almost made.
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