"My love to you, and God
speed you."
Mrs. Phillips progressed slowly but steadily. Life was returning to her,
but it was not the same. Out of those days there had come to her a
gentle dignity, a strengthening and refining. The face, now pale and
drawn, had lost its foolishness. Under the thin, white hair, and in
spite of its deep lines, it had grown younger. A great patience, a child-
like thoughtfulness had come into the quiet eyes.
She was sitting by the window, her hands folded. Joan had been reading
to her, and the chapter finished, she had closed the book and her
thoughts had been wandering. Mrs. Phillips's voice recalled them.
"Do you remember that day, my dear," she said, "when we went furnishing
together. And I would have all the wrong things. And you let me."
"Yes," answered Joan with a laugh. "They were pretty awful, some of
them."
"I was just wondering," she went on. "It was a pity, wasn't it? I was
silly and began to cry."
"I expect that was it," Joan confessed. "It interferes with our reason
at times."
"It was only a little thing, of course, that," she answered.
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