He was lying flat in the bed, his dark eyes staring upwards out of deep hollows that had become cruelly distinct.  There was dumb endurance in every line of him.  His mouth was hard set, the chin firm as granite.  And even then in his utter helplessness there was about him a greatness, a mute, unconscious majesty, that caught her by the throat.

She went softly to the bedside.

He turned his head at her coming, not quickly, not with any eagerness of welcome; but with that in his eyes, a slow kindling, that seemed to surround her with the glow of a great warmth.

But when he spoke, it was upon no intimate subject.  “Has Crowther gone?” he asked.

His voice was pitched very low.  She saw that he spoke with deliberate quietness, as if he were training himself thereto.

“Yes,” she made answer.  “He wouldn’t stay.”

“He couldn’t,” said Piers.  “He is going to be ordained tomorrow.”

“Oh, is he?” she said in surprise.  “He never told me!”

“He wouldn’t,” said Piers.  “He never talks about himself.”  He moved his hand slightly towards her.  “Won’t you sit down?”

She glanced round.  Victor was advancing behind her with a chair.  Piers’ eyes followed hers, and an instant later, turning back, she saw his quick frown.  He raised his hand and snapped his fingers with the old imperious gesture, pointing to the door; and in a moment Victor, with a smile of peculiar gratification, put down the chair, trotted to it, opened it with a flourish, and was gone.

Avery was left standing by the bed, slightly uncertain, wanting to smile, but wanting much more to cry.

Piers’ hand fell heavily.  For a few seconds he lay perfectly still, with quickened breathing and drawn brows.  Then his fingers patted the edge of the bed.  “Sit down, sweetheart!” he said.

It was Piers the boy-lover who spoke to her with those words, and, hearing them, something seemed to give way within her.  It was as if a tight band round her heart had suddenly been torn asunder.

She sank down on her knees beside the bed, and hid her face in his pillow.  Tears—­tears such as she had not shed since the beginning of their bitter estrangement—­came welling up from her heart and would not be restrained.  She sobbed her very soul out there beside him, subconsciously aware that in that hour his strength was greater than hers.

Like an overwhelming torrent her distress came upon her, caught her tempestuously, swept her utterly from her own control, tossed her hither and thither, flung her at last into a place of deep, deep silence, where, still kneeling with head bowed low, she became conscious, strangely, intimately conscious, of the presence of God.

It held her like a spell, that consciousness.  She was as one who kneels before a vision.  And even while she knelt there, lost in wonder, there came to her the throbbing gladness of faith renewed, the certainty that all would be well.