new. And then the work was
done.

Let no one say, either, that what I have described is an impossibility.
"If ye have faith,"--the Master said,--"nothing shall be impossible to
you." And nothing is. "He is a Rock; his work is perfect." And he who
overcame all our enemies for us can overcome them in us. They are
conquered foes. Only, the Lord will not do the work for those who are
trusting in themselves.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.

It was the end of September. Nearing a time of storms again in the air
and on the sea; but an absolute calm had settled down upon Diana. Not
at all the calm of death; for after death, in this warfare, comes not
only victory, but new life. It was very strange, even to herself. She
had ceased to think of Captain Knowlton; if she thought of him, it was
with the recognition that his power over her was gone. She felt like a
person delivered from helpless bondage. There was some lameness, there
were some bruises yet from the fight gone by; but Diana was every day
recovering from these, and elasticity and warmth were coming back to
the members that had been but lately rigid and cold. The sun shone
again for her, and the sky was blue, and the arch of it grew every day
loftier and brighter to her sense. At first coming to Clifton, Diana
had perceived the beauties and novelties of her new surroundings; now
she began to enjoy them. The salt air was delicious; the light morning
mist over the bay, as she saw it when she went to take her morning
bath, held a whole day of sunlit promise within its mysterious folds;
the soft low hum of the distant city, which she could hear when the
waves were still, made the solitude and the freshness and the purity of
the island seem doubly rare and sweet. And her baby began to be now to
Diana the most wonderful of delights; more than ever it had been at any
previous time.

All this while she had had letters from Basil; not very long letters,
such as a man can write to a woman whose whole sympathy he knows he
has; but good letters, such as a man can write to a woman to whom his
own heart and soul have given all they have. Not that he ever spoke of
that fact, or alluded to it. Basil was no maudlin, and no fool to ask
for a gift which cannot be yielded by an effort of will; and besides,
he had never entirely lost hope; so that, though things were dark
enough for him certainly, he could write manly, strong, sensible
letters, which, in their very la