Ennison paused by the little gate. Not a breath was drawn. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. It was the bitterest moment of her life. It has come,—and sooner than you expected. ‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted. ’ ‘As a matter of fact, it isn’t,’ conceded Gerald. " "Six," he corrected.
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