self from running away) I
turned quickly round to him and tried to speak.

But I said nothing. I did not know what women say to men under such
circumstances. I found myself trembling violently, and before I was
aware of what was happening I had burst into tears.

Then came another blinding moment and a tempest of conflicting feelings.

I felt that the man had laid hold of me, that his strong hands were
grasping my arms, and that he was looking into my face. I heard his
voice. It seemed to belong to no waking moment but to come out of the
hours of sleep.

"Mary! Mary!"

I looked up at him, but before my eyes could carry the news to my brain
I knew who it was--I knew, I knew, I knew!

"Don't be afraid! It's I!"

Then something--God knows what--made me struggle to escape, and I cried:

"Let me go!"

But even while I was struggling--trying to fly away from my greatest
happiness--I was praying with all my might that the strong arms would
hold me, conquer me, master me.

They did. And then something seemed to give way within my head, and
through a roaring that came into my brain I heard the voice again, and
it was saying:

"Quick, Sister, call a cab. Open the door, O'Sullivan. No, leave her to
me. I've got her, thank God!"

And then blinding darkness fell over me and everything was blotted out.

But only a moment afterwards (or what seemed to be a moment) memory came
back in a great swelling wave of joy. Though I did not open my eyes I
knew that I was safe and baby was safe, and all was well. Somebody--it
was the same beloved voice again--was saying:

"Mally! My Mally! My poor, long-suffering darling! My own again, God
bless her!"

It was he, it was Martin, my Martin. And, oh Mother of my Lord, he was
carrying me upstairs in his arms.

SEVENTH PART

I AM FOUND

ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTH CHAPTER

My return to consciousness was a painful, yet joyful experience. It was
almost like being flung in a frail boat out of a tempestuous sea into a
quiet harbour.

I seemed to hear myself saying, "My child shall not die. Poverty shall
not kill her. I am going to take her into the country . . . she will
recover. . . . No, no, it is not Martin. Martin is dead. . . . But his
eyes . . . don't you see his eyes. . . . Let me go."

Then all the confused sense of nightmare seemed to be carried away as by
some mighty torrent, and there came a great calm, a kind of morning
sweetness, with the sun shining through my