chafing, restless longing for self-expression grew more intense
and more intolerable.

And then the woman who was his wife lost her own yoke of self-restraint
in solicitude for him. Timidly, hesitatingly at first, she invaded the
precincts of his mind. With subtle persistence, yet never seeming to
force her way, she wove her personality about his like a web of silken
thread. Her purity of thought, her innate artistry, her depth of
feeling, played on his spirit like dew upon the parched earth.

As the passing hours took their course, each nature unconsciously gave
to the other the freedom that comes only with surrender. His strength
and his care for her liberated her womanhood, and, like a flower that
has lived in shadow, her soul blossomed to fullness in that warmth.

And his troubled mind, directionless, yet rebellious of inaction, found
again the meaning and the hidden truths of life, then gained the
courage to be life's interpreter.

Once more Austin Selwyn wrote.

One evening towards the summer Elise was sitting on the veranda, when
he came from his study and joined her. The first pale stars were
shining through a sheen of blue that rose from the horizon in an
encircling, shimmering mist.

'Are you through with your writing?' she said.

'Not yet,' he answered, sitting beside her; 'but I could not resist the
call of you and this wonderful night.'

'Isn't it glorious?' she said softly, taking his hand in hers. 'I
think that blue over the sea must be like the Arabian desert at night
when the camel-trains rest on their way. Don't you love the sound of
the waves?'

With a little sigh she leaned her head on his shoulder, and he held her
close to him.

'Happy, Elise?'

'So happy,' she whispered, 'that I am afraid some day I shall find it
isn't true.'

He laughed gently, and for a few moments neither spoke, held by the
wonderful intimacy of the spirit that does not need words for
understanding.

'Austin dear,' she said at length, 'before you came out I was counting
the stars--and playing with dreams. Don't think me silly, will you?
But I was planning, if we have a son, what I should like to call him.'

'I think I know,' he said, pressing his lips against her hair. 'Dick?'

'And Gerard for his second name. I should want him to be strong and
true like Gerard--but he must have Dick's eyes and Dick's smile. But,
then, I want so much for this dream-boy of ours--for, most of all, he
must be like my