* * * * *

Beth realized that she had half-expected Bedient to re-enter that open door....  Reflecting upon the days, she found that he had done none of the things she had half-expected.  Only, while she had believed herself comparatively unresponsive, he had filled her with a deep, silent inrushing.  One by one he had swept away the ramparts which the world had builded before her heart.  So softly and perfectly had he fitted his nature to her inner conception that she had not been roused in time.  But the Shadowy Sister had known him for her prince of playmates....  She wondered how she could have been so wilful and so blind with her painter’s strong eyes.  Even her pride had betrayed her.  Wordling and the ocean could not continue to stand against all the good he had shown her.

Beth had run away for a few days.  She could not bear her mother’s eyes, nor the studio where he had been.  Better the house of strangers, two hours from New York up the Hudson....  She heard he had gone back to his Island....  The June days drowsed.  The mid-days were slow to come to as far hills; and endless to pass as hills that turn into ranges.  The sloping afternoons were aeon-long; and centuries of toil were told in the hum of the bees about her window, toil to be done over and over again; and sometimes from the murmur of the bees, would appear to her like a swiftly-flung scroll, glimpses of her other lives, filled like this with endless waiting—­for she was always a woman.  And for what was she waiting?...

Often she thought of what Bedient had said about the women who refuse the bowl of porridge, and who therefore do not leave their children to brighten the race.  These he had called the centres of new and radiant energy, the spiritual mothers of the race.  And one night she cried aloud:  “Would one be less a spiritual help, because she had a little of her own heart’s desire?  Because she held the highest office of woman, would her outer radiance be dimmed?  To be a spiritual mother, why must she be just a passing influence or inspiration—­a cheer for those who stop a moment to refresh themselves from her little cup, and hurry on about their own near and dear affairs, in which she has no share?...  He stands in a big, bright garden and commands the spiritual mother to remain a waif out on the dusty highway.  ’How much better off you are out there!’ he says.  ’You can show people the Gate, and keep them from going the wrong way, on the long empty road.  Nothing can hurt you, but yourself.  It is very foolish of you to want to come in!’"...

She remembered that some fine thing had lit his eyes like stars at the parting.  Time came when she wished she had seen him at the studio, or at her mother’s house, when he called before going away....  The sharp irony of her success brought tears—­and Beth Truba was rather choice of her tears.  The portrait had made a stir at the Club, and the papers were discussing it gravely.