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“And now she is grubbing away dear knows where!” her biographer would say carelessly. “Absolutely, they might as well be buried!”

But about seven years after the Kirbys’ disappearance, it happened that four of Margaret’s old intimates–the T. Illington Frarys and the Josiah Dunnings–were taking a little motor trip in the Dunnings’ big car, through the northern part of the State. Just outside the little village of Applebridge, something mysterious and annoying happened to the car, which stopped short, and after some discussion it was decided that the ladies should wait therein, while the men walked back in search of help.

Mrs. Dunning and Mrs. Frary, settling themselves comfortably in the tonneau for a long wait, puzzled themselves a little over the name of Applebridge.

“I can just remember hearing of it,” said Mrs. Dunning, sleepily, “but when or where or how I don’t know.”

They opened their books. A brilliant May afternoon throbbed, hummed, sparkled all about them. The big wheels of the motor were deep in grass and blossoms. On either side of the road, fields were gay with bees and butterflies. Larks looped the blackberry-vines with quick flights; mustard-tops showed their pale gold under the apple-blossoms.

Here and there a white cloud drifted in the deep, clear blue of the sky. There had been rains a day or two before, and in the fragrant air still hung a little chill, a haunting suggestion of wet earth and refreshed blossoms. Somewhere near, but out of sight, a flooded creek was tumbling noisily over its shallows.

Suddenly the Sunday stillness was broken by voices. The two women in the motor looked at each other, listening. They heard a woman’s voice, singing; then a small boyish voice, then a man’s voice. The speakers, whoever they were, apparently settled down in the meadow, not more than a dozen yards away, for a breathing space. A tangle of vines and bushes screened them from the motor-car.

“Mother, are me and Billy going to turn the freezer?” said a child’s voice, and a man asked:

“Tired, old lady?”

“No, not at all. It’s been a delicious walk,” said the woman. The two sitting in the motor gasped. “Yes, yes, yes, lovey,” the woman’s voice went on, “you and Bill may turn, if Mary doesn’t mind. Be careful of my fern, Jack!” And then, in German: “Aren’t they lovely in all the grass and flowers, John?”

“Margaret!” breathed Mrs. Frary. “Poor, dear Margaret Kirby!”

“I hope they don’t go by this way,” whispered Mrs. Dunning, after an astounded second. “One’s been so rude–don’t you know–forgetting her!”

“She probably won’t know us,” Mrs. Frary whispered back, adjusting her veil in a stealthy way.

Mrs. Frary was right. The Kirbys presently passed with only a cursory glance at the swathed occupants of the motor-car. They were laughing like a lot of children as they scrambled through the hedge. John–a big, broad John, as strong and brisk as a boy–carried a tiny barefoot girl on his shoulder. Margaret, her beauty more startling than ever under the sweep of a gypsy hat; her splendid figure a little broader, but still magnificent under the cotton gown; her arms full of flowers and ferns, was escorted by two more children, sturdy little boys, who doubled and redoubled on their tracks like puppies. The tiny barefoot girl, in her father’s arms, was only a tangle of blue gingham and drifting strands of silky hair; but the boys were splendidly alert little lads, and their high voices loitered in the air after the radiant, chattering little caravan had quite disappeared.

“Well!” said Mrs. Dunning, then.

“Poor, dear Margaret Kirby!” was on Mrs. Frary’s lips; but she didn’t say it.

She and Mrs. Dunning stared at each other a long minute, utterly at a loss. Then they reopened their books.