Now she had come to the end. The play was over. The illusion of theatre was strong. Footlights dimmed, and in the dying light the actors turned to make their way from the stage. Doris and Ernie, young as they would never be young again. And the old Penberths and the Trubshots, and the Watson-Grants. And Papa. All dead. Long dead. Last of all went Richard. She remembered him smiling, and realized that time, that great old healer, had finally accomplished its work, and now, across the years, the face of love no longer stirred up agonies of grief and bitterness. Rather, one was
