now the sun and cold had done their work, there was a crust
which upbore her slight weight; she could walk swiftly; there was to be
no more floundering. She could run!

And run she did, when she had crested the first ridge and had started
down the far side. It was like flying! The crisp air cut her glowing
cheeks; her blood leaped along her veins; she breathed deeply, a great,
uplifting elation bore her along. Love--God is love--smoothed the way
before her; the stars ran with her, the great blazing stars to which
again and again she lifted her eyes. They spoke to her; they came close
to her; when she stopped, resting, they were all about her, bending
down, and she was lifted up among them. Fervour and the ecstasy of the
hour in which was doing to the uttermost, forgetful of pettiness and
selfishness and cowardice--she prayed mutely that she was done with them
for ever, that never again would she be such a woman as Gratton had been
a man--made her over into a radiant, glorious Gloria. The night stamped
itself upon her for all time; out of the night she drew, as one draws
air into his lungs, a new faith that was akin to the man's whom she
served. For one cannot be alone with the stars and be unmoved by them;
they are serene with eternity, refulgent with the perfect beauty of a
perfect creation, eloquent to the heart of man and woman of true values.
Under the fields of their vastitude, confronted by their infinity,
Gloria, like thousands before, understood that man in fevered times is
prone to turn to false gods. Gus Ingle's gold--her own gold, one
day--was a thing to smile at. Or, at best, not a thing to expend wildly
for gowns and gowns and shoes and stockings and limousines; to-night
Gloria felt that she had had her fill of vanities like those, that she
was done with them; that if, for every moan and agony and slow death and
thought of envy Gus Ingle's gold had brought into the world, she could
create a smile here and a hope fulfilled there and a glow yonder, she
would ask nothing else of the yellow dirt. For dirt or rock or dross it
was, and that was as clear as starlight. If her hand but lay in the hand
of Mark King, what did gold matter? Or dresses--or what people thought
or said of her or him? A strange little smile touched her lips.

"I love you," she whispered, as though Mark were with her--as in her
soul he was.

Had there not been a great, glowing love in her heart she would have
been afraid. But there was no