ven, all of them more or less, I suppose. He meant that the
Sacraments were not signs of salvation, but salvation itself. Julie, I
never saw the idea before. It's colossal. It's a thing to which one might
dedicate one's life. It's a thing to live and die gladly for. It fills
one. Don't you think so, Julie?" He spoke exultantly.

"Peter, to be honest," said Julie, "I think you're talking fanatical
rubbish."

"Do you really, Julie? You can't, _surely_ you can't."

"But I do, Peter," she said sadly; "it makes no appeal to me. I can only
see one great thing in life, and it's not that. 'The rest is lies,' But,
oh! surely that great thing might not be false too. But why do you see
one thing, and I another, my dear?"

"I don't know," said Peter, "unless--well, perhaps it's a kind of gift,
Julie, 'If thou knewest the gift of God...' Not that I know, only I can
just see a great wonderful vision, and it fills my sight."

"I, too," she said; "but it's not your vision."

"What is it, then?" said he, carried away by his own ideas and hardly
thinking of her.

Her voice brought him back. "Oh, Peter, don't you know even yet?"

He took her arm very tenderly at that. "My darling," he said, "the two
aren't incompatible. Julie, don't be sad. I love you; you know I love
you. I wish we'd never gone to the place if you think I don't, but I
haven't changed towards you a bit, Julie. I love you far, far more than
anyone else. I won't give you up, even to God!"

It was dark where they were. Julie lifted her face to him just there. He
thought he had never heard her speak as she spoke now, there, in a London
street, under the night sky. "Peter, my darling," she said, "my brave
boy. How I love you, Peter! I know _you_ won't give me up, Peter, and I
adore you for it. Peter, hell will be heaven with the memory of that!"
There, then, he sealed her with his kiss.

* * * * *

Julie stirred in his arms, but the movement did not wake him any more
than the knock of the door had done. "All right," she called. "Thank
you," and, leaning over, she switched on the light. It was 5.30, and
necessary. In its radiance she bent over him, and none of her friends had
ever seen her look as she did then. She kissed him, and he opened his
eyes.

"Half-past five, Peter," she said, as gaily as she could. "You've got to
get a move on, my dear. Two hours to dress and pack and breakfast--no, I
suppose you can do that on the train. B