the dead, and the glory of the dead — all past and gone — her David’s glory. Shown that long, empty gallery resounding with those aged footsteps, and the pictures — pictures — pictures — of men and women who had once been babes like her little son and David’s, now dead and gone — not one soul among them all to greet her. Proud lords and dames in frames of gold; young men and maidens in costly silks and velvets of marvellous dyes, red-cheeked, red-lipped, and soullessly silent; and she, alone and undefended in their midst, holding in her arms their last descendant. All those painted fingers seemed lifted to point at her; those silent red lips parted to cry out at her, “Look at this stranger claiming to be one of us; send her away.”

And David — her David