to
her through her own endeavour.

But, somehow, the old prejudices had gone; the old instincts of pride
and independence had been obliterated, merged in a serene and tranquil
unity of mind and will and spirit with the man in whom every atom of
her belief and faith was now centred.

It mattered no longer to her what material portion of her possessions
and environment was due to her own efforts, or to his. Nothing that
might be called hers could remain conceivable as hers unless he shared
it. Their rights in each other included everything temporal and
spiritual; everything of mind and matter alike. Of what consequence,
then, might be the origin of possessions that could not exist for her
unless possession were mutual?

Nothing would be real to her, nothing of value, unless so marked by
his interest and his approval. And now she knew that even the world
itself must become but a shadow, were he not living to make it real.

* * * * *

It was a fearfully hot day in town, and she waited until evening to go
back to Spring Pond.

When she arrived, Mrs. Connor had a cablegram for her from Clive
saying that he was sailing and would see her before the month ended.

Late into the night she looked for him in her crystal but could see
nothing save a blue and tranquil sea and gulls flying, and always on
the curved world's edge a far stain of smoke against the sky.

Her mother was in her room that night, seated near the window as
though to keep the vigil that her daughter kept, brooding above the
crystal.

It was Friday, the twenty-first, and a new moon. The starlight was
magnificent in the August skies: once or twice meteors fell. But in
the depths of her crystal she saw always a sunlit sea and a gull's
wings flashing.

Toward morning when the world had grown its darkest and stillest, she
went over to where her mother was sitting beside the window, and knelt
down beside her chair.

And so in voiceless and tender communion she nestled close, her golden
head resting against her mother's knees.

Dawn found her there asleep beside an empty chair.

CHAPTER XXVII

One day toward the end of August, Athalie, standing at the pier's end,
saw the huge incoming liner slowly warping to her berth; waited amid
the throngs in the vast sheds by the gangway, caught a glimpse of
Clive, lost him to view, then saw him again, very near, making his way
toward her. And then her hands were in his and s