She had done
a deed of horror upon herself, but she had loved him, and madly had done
it for his sake. She had laid down her life for him. All that he could
do would be nothing compared with that. All that he could tear from the
world and lay tenderly as an offering at her feet would be but a handful
of dust in comparison with what she had done in the madness of love.

His heart strings wound themselves about their treasure, closer and
closer, stronger and stronger. The two natures that strove together in
him, the natures of body and soul, were at one with her, and drew life
from her though she was gone. It seemed impossible that they could ever
again part and smite one another for the mastery, as of old, for one
sorrow had overwhelmed them both, and together they knew the depths of
one grief.

Again, as of old, he defied fate. Death could take the child from him,
but could not separate the three in death or life. So long as the child
lived, to do or die for him was the question, while life should last.
But Paul Griggs defied fate, for fate's grim hand could not uproot his
heart from the strong place of his great dead love, to buffet it and
tear it again. He was alone, bodily, but he was safe forever.

Out of the dimness of twilight shadows the pale face came to him, and
the sweet lips kissed his; in a light not earthly the dark eyes
lightened, and the red auburn hair gleamed and fell about him. In the
darkness, a tender hand stole softly upon his, and words yet more tender
stirred the stillness. He knew that she was near him, close to him, with
him. The truth of what had been made the half dream all true. Only in
his sleep he could not find her, and was wandering ever over a dreary
grave that covered the whole world.

So his life went on with little change, inwardly or outwardly, from day
to day, in the absolute security from danger which the dead give us of
themselves. The faith that had gone beyond her death could go beyond his
own life, too. He defied fate.

Then fate, silent, relentless, awful, knocked at his door.

He was at work as usual. It was a bright winter's day, and the high sun
of the late morning streamed across one corner of his writing-table. He
was thinking of nothing but his writing, and upon that his thoughts were
closely intent in that everlasting struggle to do better which had
nearly driven poor Gloria mad.

The little jingling bell rang and thumped against the outer door to
which it was f