"She is better dead."
The comforter looked surprised; what a strange way for a mother to speak.
"Let us go, now," urged Frost, impulsively. As they passed out, he placed money in the woman's hand.
"Put her away nicely."
Motioning him back, the woman caught his arm and whispered:
"By the right of a life-long debt, I now ask for peace."
"Is that all?" he sneered.
"And I hope you will be a better man," she added.
They were on their way home. A flush crept slowly up Willard Frost's face, then, heaving a sigh and quickly repenting of it, he tried to laugh, to drive away the impression of it.
It had been dismal within, but it was lovely without. The gray transparency of the atmosphere lent a glamour to the autumn hues, like flimsy gauze over the face of some Eastern beauty, and the seductive harmony of the colors acted like magic music on the spirit.
"That dead girl was once the most exquisite piece of flesh I ever saw. This is truly a legend of the beautiful. She supported herself by posing for
