. Life had become one long renunciation.

He did not go home at all that night. He divided his time between the
plant and the hospital, going back and forward. Each time he found the
report good. She was still strong; no internal injuries had manifested
themselves, and the concussion would probably wear off before long. He
wanted to be there when she first opened her eyes. He was afraid
she might be frightened, and there would be a bad minute when she
remembered--if she did remember.

At midnight, going into the room, he found Mrs. Haverford beside
Audrey's bed, knitting placidly. She seemed to accept his being there
as perfectly natural, and she had no sick-room affectations. She did not
whisper, for one thing.

"The nurse thinks she is coming round, Clayton," she said. "I waited,
because I thought she ought to see a familiar face when she does."

Mrs. Haverford was eminently good for him. Her cheerful
matter-of-factness her competent sanity, restored his belief in a world
that had seemed only chaos and death. How much, he wondered later, had
Mrs. Haverford suspected? He had not been in any condition to act
a part. But whatever she suspected he knew was locked in her kindly
breast.

Audrey moved slightly, and he went over to her. When he glanced up again
Mrs. Haverford had gone out.

So it was that Audrey came back to him, and to him alone. She asked no
questions. She only lay quite still on her white pillows, and looked
at him. Even when he knelt beside her and drew her toward him, she said
nothing, but she lifted her uninjured hand and softly caressed his bent
head. Clayton never knew whether Mrs. Haverford had come back and seen
that or not. He did not care, for that matter. It seemed to him just
then that all the world must know what was so vitally important, so
transcendently wonderful.

Not until Audrey's eyes closed again, and he saw that she was sleeping,
did he loosen his arms from around her.

When at last he went out to the stiffly furnished hospital parlor, he
found Mrs. Haverford sitting there alone, still knitting. But he rather
thought she had been crying. There was an undeniably moist handkerchief
on her knee.

"She roused a little while ago," he said, trying to speak quietly, and
as though Audrey's rousing were not the wonder that it was. "She seemed
very comfortable. And now she's sleeping."

"The dear child!" said Mrs. Haverford. "If she had died, after
everything--" Her plump face quive