drift with the tide in the lyrical
interlude in the lovely, lazy land she had come from, but--save perhaps
for certain misty moments--it had insisted on swimming stoutly upstream.
"I am going back to Michael Daragh," she told herself gladly and unashamed,
and the rhythm of the train, hurrying across the continent, repeated it
in a joyful, endless litany--"Going--back--to--Michael--Daragh!"

Jane leaned back in her quiet compartment (tangible evidence of solid
success) and watched the desert miles and the prairie miles sliding away
beside her, and warmed her heart and soul with the thought of Michael's
face when he should first see her again. Now, when the swift gladness
leapt up in his eyes and the color ran up in his thin cheeks and his
whole face glowed from within with its stained-glass-window look, she
would not turn away from him, but to him,--gladly, royally, lavishly,
with all that she had and all that she was.

She wired Mrs. Hills from Chicago the day but not the hour of her return,
but sent no word to Michael Daragh. That would savor of a command, a
summons, and she was too happily humble for that. He would know from the
boarding-house keeper that she was near, and he would be waiting for her.

Like a timid tourist, she was hatted and veiled and gloved long before
they entered the grimy outskirts of the city, and sat, hot-cheeked,
breathing fast, on the edge of her seat, far more thrilled and shaken
than she had been, four years and more ago, when she made her exodus from
the village to the wide world. The narrow strip of mirror between the
windows framed her radiant face; now indeed was she _anointed with the
oil of joy above her fellows_.

Between a slight delay of the train, and the snail's pace of the taxicab
through the traffic, it would be quite six o'clock before she reached
Mrs. Hetty Hills' house in Washington Square; he would be absolutely
certain to be home.

Everything took on an especial beauty and significance,--the crowded
streets, the shop windows, the lights, the people,--her heart went out to
all of them--rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief; they were Michael's
and they would be hers. He should have that oil of joy for his work, for
his high, selfless purposes.

It was hard to wait even an instant to see him, to have him ask, and to
answer, but it was wonderful to wait, in faith and utter confidence. The
sense of haste and impatience fell away; it must happen as it would,
serenely, n