s big frame and
broad shoulders shut out the light to such an extent that when he turned
it was toward a darkened room. He could barely see her, as she sat
sidewise to the desk, an arm along the back of her chair. His attitude
bespoke a doubt in his mind that still kept him at a distance.

"You're not--you're _not_--saying all this," he pleaded, "because you
think I've done anything that calls for a reward? I said once that I
should never take anything from you, and I never shall--unless it's
something you give only because you can't help it."

Her answer was quite prompt. "I'm not giving anything--or doing
anything. What has happened seems to me to have come about simply and
naturally, like the sunrise or the seasons, because it's the fullness of
time and what God means. I can't say more about it than that. If it
depended on my own volition I shouldn't be able to speak of it so
frankly. But now--if you want me--as you wanted me once--"

She rose and stood by her chair, holding herself proudly and yet with a
certain meekness. With his hands clasped behind him, as though even yet
he dared not touch her, he crossed the twilit room toward her.

* * * * *

Late that night Henry Guion stood on the terrace below the
Corinthian-columned portico. There was no moon, but the stars had
the gold fire with which they shine when the sky is violet. Above
the horizon a shimmering halo marked the cluster of cities and towns.
In the immediate foreground the great elm was leafless now, but for
that reason more clearly etched against the starlight--line on line,
curve on curve, sweeping, drooping, interlaced. Guion stood with head
up and figure erect, as if from strength given back to him. Even
through the darkness he displayed some of the self-assurance and
stoutness of heart of the man with whom things are going well. He was
remembering--questioning--doubting.

"I had come to the end of the end ... and I prayed ... yes, I
_prayed_.... I asked for a miracle ... and the next day it seemed to
have been worked.... Was it the prayer that did it?... Was it any one's
prayer?... Was it any one's faith?... Was it--God?... Had faith and
prayer and God anything to do with it?... Do things happen by
coincidence and chance?... or is there a Mind that directs them?... I
wonder!... I wonder!..."

THE END

End of Project Gutenberg's The Street Called Straight, by Basil King

*** END OF THIS PROJE