Christmas Day I was a
bit touched up to see old Treacle, who had lived the life of a rip,
fumbling at his breast and hauling something out with an effort.

It was a wooden image of the Virgin (about the length of my hand) daubed
over with gilt and blue paint, and when he stuck it up in front of his
face as he lay in his sleeping-bag, I knew that he expected to go out
before morning, and wished _that_ to be the last thing his old eyes
should rest on.

I am not much of a man for saints myself (having found that we get out
of tight places middling well without them), but perhaps what Treacle
did got down into some secret place of my soul, for I felt calmer as I
fell asleep, and when I awoke it was not from the sound of my darling's
voice, but from a sort of deafening silence.

The roaring of the wind had ceased; the blizzard was over; the lamp that
hung from the staff of the tent had gone out; and there was a sheet of
light coming in from an aperture in the canvas.

It was the midnight sun of the Antarctic, and when I raised my head I
saw that it fell full on the little gilded image of the Virgin. Anybody
who has never been where I was then may laugh if he likes and welcome,
but that was enough for me. It was all right! Somebody was looking after
my dear one!

I shouted to my shipmates to get up and make ready, and at dawn, when we
started afresh on our journey, there may have been dark clouds over our
heads but the sun was shining inside of us.

M.C.

[END OF MARTIN CONRAD'S MEMORANDUM]

EIGHTY-FOURTH CHAPTER

Sister Mildred was right. Our Blessed Lady must have interceded for me,
because help came immediately.

I awoke on St. Stephen's morning with that thrilling emotion which every
mother knows to be the first real and certain consciousness of
motherhood.

It is not for me to describe the physical effects of that great change.
But the spiritual effect is another matter. It was like that of a
miracle. God in his great mercy, looking down on me in my sorrow, had
sent one of His ministering angels to comfort me.

It seemed to say:

"Don't be afraid. He who went away is not lost to you. Something of
himself is about to return."

I felt no longer that I was to be left alone in my prison-house of
London, because Martin's child was to bear me company--to be a link
between us, an everlasting bond, so that he and I should be together to
the end.

I tremble to say what interpretation I put upon all th