Looking back upon the journey later, she never remembered its tedium.  She was as one borne on the wings of love, and she scarcely noticed the hardships of the way.

Will Musgrave met her according to his promise at the great junction in the Plains.  She found him exceedingly solicitous for her welfare, but so grave and silent that she hardly liked to question him.  He thanked her very earnestly for coming, said that Daisy was about the same, and then left her almost exclusively to the society of her ayah.

The heat in the Plains was terrific, but Muriel’s courage never wavered.  She endured it with unfaltering resolution, hour after hour reckoning the dwindling miles that lay before them, passing over all personal discomfort as of no account, content only to be going forward.

But they left the Plains behind at last, and then came to the welcome ascent to the Hill station through a country where pine-trees grew ever more and more abundant.

At length at the close of a splendid day they reached it, and as they were nearing their destination Will broke through his silence.

“She doesn’t know even yet that you are coming,” he said.  “I thought the suspense of waiting for you might be bad for her.  Miss Roscoe—­in heaven’s name—­make her happy if you can!”

There was such a passion of entreaty in his voice that Muriel was deeply touched.  She gave him her hand impulsively.

“Mr. Musgrave,” she said, “to this day I do not know what it was that came between us, but I promise—­I promise—­that if any effort of mine can remove it, it shall be removed to-night.”

Will Musgrave squeezed her fingers hard.  “God bless you!” he said earnestly.

And with that he left her, and went on ahead to prepare Daisy for her coming.

All her life Muriel remembered Daisy’s welcome of that evening with a thrill of pain.  They met at the gate of the little compound that surrounded the bungalow Will had taken for his wife, and though the light of the sinking sun smote with a certain ruddiness upon Daisy, Muriel was unspeakably shocked by her appearance.

Her white hair, her deathly pallor, the haunting misery of her eyes—­above all, her silence—­went straight to the girl’s heart.  Without a single word she gathered Daisy close in her warm young arms and so held her in a long and speechless embrace.

After all, it was Daisy who spoke first, gently drawing herself away.  “Come in, darling!  You must be nearly dead after your awful journey.  I can’t think how Will could ask it of you at this time of the year.  I couldn’t myself.”

“I would have come to you from the world’s end—­and gladly,” Muriel answered, in her deep voice.  “You know I would.”

And that was all that passed between them, for Will was present, and Daisy had already begun to lead her guest into the house.

As the evening wore on, Muriel was more and more struck by the great change she saw in her.  They had not met for ten months, but twice as many years seemed to have passed over Daisy, crushing her beneath their weight.  All her old sprightliness had vanished utterly.  She spoke but little, and there was in her manner to her husband a wistful humility, a submission so absolute, that Muriel, remembering her ancient spirit, could have wept.