corridors of her brain; when
neither sleep nor effort of will could shield her from that awful
visualisation of the dreaded thing, which is the artist's penalty in
the day of trouble. At such times, the fear that he might slip out of
her life without knowledge of the great fact, that no amount of
repetition can minimise, nor custom stale; without knowledge that
through his long love and constancy she had attained to the 'greatest
creative art of all,' had almost dragged her out of bed at midnight to
begin the letter that should carry the word to him amid the sublimity
of his glaciers and eternal silences. But always something stronger
than fear had restrained her; so that the weeks had dropped away one by
one, like faded petals, and the secret that was to be the crowning
glory of their new life together still lay hidden in her heart.

The cheerful round of festivities common to an Indian Hill season had
passed her by; and she was content to have it so. Between her canvas
and her unpractised needle, between the companionship of Michael, and
of the Desmonds--while they were 'up'--her days had gone softly, yet
pleasantly and profitably in more respects than one. For it is in the
pauses between times of activity and stress that the still small voice
of God speaks most clearly to the soul; that power is generated and
garnered against the hidden things that shall be. It is in the pauses
that we can, as it were, stand back a space from our own corner of the
picture we are so zealously making or marring, and catch an
illuminating glimpse of the proportions of the whole.

Thus it had been with Quita Lenox. In these four months of seeming
inactivity, the large, underlying forces of life had been silently at
work in her, touching the impressionable spirit of her to 'fine issues'
that the sure years would reveal. Nor had her time of quiet been
lacking in immediate results. A completed picture stood to her credit;
and a drawer full of surprising achievements in the way of needlecraft;
achievements so pathetically small that at times the sight of them
brought tears to her eyes.

But this afternoon neither brush nor needle tempted her. In spirit she
was with her husband, trying by concentration of thought to bridge the
space between. But always her thoughts ended in one cry: If only--if
only--he could get back in time!

Michael Maurice had stayed on at the Crow's Nest, possibly
from laziness, possibly for other reasons;