had all resolved itself into deeds,
into a few simple words like the honey in the flower and the slowly
fructifying cells. Now she stood leaning on her staff and thinking back
over the course she had run. Osmond had been the child of her spirit
because he was maimed. She had drawn with him every breath of his horror
of life, his acquiescence, his completed calm. What withdrawals there
were in him, what wrestlings of the will, what iron obediences, only she
knew. There was the sweetness, too, of the little child who, when they
were alone, in some sad twilight, used to come and put his arms about
her neck and lay his cheek to hers, with a mute plea to her to
understand. And now when Osmond had harnessed himself to the earth, God
had let a beautiful flower spring up before him, to say, "Behold me."
God did everything, grannie knew. He had not merely created, in a space
of magnificent idleness, some centuries ago, and then, with the
commendation that it was "good," turned away his head and let his work
shift for itself. He was about it now, every instant, in the decay of
one seed to nourish another, in the blast and in the sunshine. He was
ever at hand to hear the half-formed cry of the soul, the whisper it
hardly knew it gave. He was the still, small voice. And He had
remembered Osmond as He had been remembering him all these years. He had
led him by painful steps to the hilltop, and then had painted for him a
great sunrise on the sky. The night might lower and obscure it, the rain
fall, or the lightning strike. But Osmond would have seen the sunrise.
And all grannie could say was,--

"It may not turn out well, dear, but it's a great thing for him to
have."

Peter strode away into the garden. She followed him, in an hour or so,
and asked if she should sit for him, and all that afternoon he painted
on her portrait, with the dash and absorption of one who knows his task.

"Tired, grannie?" he asked at length.

"No, Peter."

"You're going to be a sweet thing with your white cap here against the
hollyhocks," said Peter. "I must hurry. When it's done, I'll leave it
for exhibition, and then I'll go back to France."

That night he strode away for a walk, and grannie betook herself to her
own room. So Rose was alone when Osmond came. She had dressed for him,
and she looked the great lady. There was about her that air of proud
conquest worn by women when they are willing to let man see how much he
may lose in lacking them,