e earth and sky showed suddenly as belonging
to this same transient manifestation of thought; and gradually, as he
stood there, his perceptions were reinforced by a sense which is not
that of the eye nor of the ear. He neither saw nor heard, yet he felt
that the spirit had moved toward him on the face of the dawn; and the
"I" was not more evident to his illumined consciousness than was the
"Thou." He beheld God, with the vision which is beyond vision; the light
of his eyes, the breath of his body were less plain to him than was the
mystery of his soul. And the universal life, he saw--spirit and matter,
fibre and impulse, vibration of atom and quiver of aspiration--was but
an agonised working out into this consciousness of God. With the
revelation his own life was changed as by a miracle of nature; right
became no longer difficult, but easy; and not the day only, but his
whole existence and the end to which it moved were made as clear to him
as the light before his eyes.

Again he thought of Laura, still under the troubled radiance of her
illusion, and his heart dissolved in sympathy, not for her only, but for
all mankind--for Kemper, whom she loved, for Gerty, for Connie, for
Perry Bridewell. "They seek for happiness, but it is mine," he thought;
"and because they seek it first, it will keep away from them forever. It
is not to be found in pleasure, nor in the desire of any object, nor in
the fulfilment of any love--for I, who have none of these things, am
happier than they."

He turned away from the window toward the door, and it was at this
instant that one of the nurses ran up to him.

"We thought you had gone home," she said, "so we have rung you up by
telephone for an hour--" She stopped and paused hesitating for an
instant; then meeting the quiet question in his look, she added simply,
"Your wife died, still unconscious, an hour ago."

CHAPTER V

TREATS OF THE POVERTY OF RICHES

On the morning of Connie's death, Gerty, dropping in shortly before
luncheon, brought the news to Laura.

"Do you know for once in my life my social instinct has failed me," she
confessed in her first breath, "I am perfectly at a loss as to how the
situation should be met. Ought one to ignore her death or ought one not
to?"

"Do you mean," asked Laura, "that you can't decide whether to write to
him or not?"

"Of course that's a part of it, but, the main thing is to know in one's
own mind whether one ought to regard it a