THE REDEMPTION OF ANTHONY
She looked very slight and childish in her white gown, her hair about her face.
Mrs. Martin touched a chain she wore about her neck. "What's this?" she said, examining the locket which fell into her hand.
Priscilla flushed. "You wouldn't care to know," she said.
"But I do care. May I look?" Mrs. Martin persisted, suspecting some childish love-affair.
"If you like," Priscilla whispered. "It is the picture of my pretended best friend."
She put her head down, and waited centuries while her mother looked, and then she heard a sob—deep, rending, like the breaking up of ice long hardened. She was drawn into her mother's arms, and on her face she felt the rain of tears.
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