s
heating water needed for some of the processes of the sick room. It had
begun to steam up in the thick, hot night air, was singing loudly, and
would boil in an instant. She sat looking at it in her tense, trembling
quiet. There was no light but the blue flame of the stove.

Suddenly there rang loudly in her ears the question to which she had
deafened herself with such crucifying effort--"What if Ariadne should
die?" It was as though someone had called to her. She looked down into
the black abyss from which she had willfully turned away her eyes, and
saw that it was fathomless. A throe of revolt and hatred shook her. She
bowed her head to her knees, racked by an anguish compared with which
the torture of childbirth was nothing; and out of this deadly pain came
forth, as in childbirth, something alive--a vision as swift, as passing
as a glimpse into the gates of Paradise; a blinding certainty of
immensity, of the hugeness of the whole of which she and Ariadne were a
part; of the sacredness of life, which was to be lived sacredly, even
if-- She raised her head, living a more exalted instant than she had
ever dreamed she would know.

The water broke into quick, dancing bubbles. In a period of time
incalculably short, transfiguration had come to her.

The door at the other end of the hall opened and Dr. Melton's light,
uneven footstep echoed back of her. She did not turn. He laid a hand on
her shoulder. It was trembling, and with a wonderful consciousness of
endless courage she turned to comfort him. His lips were twitching so
that for an instant he could not speak. Then, "She'll pull through. I'm
pretty sure now, she'll--" he got out and leaned against the wall.

Lydia took him into a protecting embrace as though it were his baby who
had turned back from the gates of death. She had come into a larger
heritage. She was mother to all that suffered. Looking down on the head
which, for an instant, lay on her bosom, she noticed how white the hair
was. He was an old man, her godfather, he had been on a long strain--.
He looked up at her. And then in an instant it was over. He had mastered
himself and had grasped the handle of the basin.

"How long has this been boiling?" he asked.

Lydia pointed to her watch, hanging on the wall. "Three minutes by
that," she said. "May I leave to tell 'Stashie?"

The doctor nodded absently.

Neither spoke of Paul.

Lydia hurried across the dark, silent house with swift sureness. The