A cry escaped Diana as she buried her face in her friend’s lap.  Marion kissed and comforted her.

“If you only knew how happy I am!” she said, in a low voice.  “Ever since I was a child I seem to have fought—­fought hard for every step—­every breath.  I fought for bread first—­and self-respect—­for myself—­then for others.  One seemed to be hammering at shut gates or climbing precipices with loads that dragged one down.  Such trouble always!” she murmured, with closed eyes—­“such toil and anguish of body and brain!  And now it is all over!”—­she raised herself joyously—­“I am already on the farther side.  I am like St. Francis—­waiting.  And meanwhile I have a dear friend—­who loves me.  I can’t let him marry me.  Pain and disease and mutilation—­of all those horrors, as far as I can, he shall know nothing.  He shall not nurse me; he shall only love and lead me.  But I have been thirsting for beautiful things all my life—­and he is giving them to me.  I have dreamed of Italy since I was a baby, and here I am!  I have seen Rome and Florence.  We go on to Venice.  And next week there will be mountains—­and snow-peaks—­rivers—­forests—­flowers—­”

Her voice sank and died away.  Diana clung to her, weeping, in a speechless grief and reverence.  At the same time her own murdered love cried out within her, and in the hot despair of youth she told herself that life was as much finished for her as for this tired saint—­this woman of forty—­who had borne since her babyhood the burdens of the poor.

CHAPTER XVII

The Whitsuntide recess passed—­for the wanderers in Italy—­in a glorious prodigality of sun, a rushing of bud and leaf to “feed in air,” a twittering of birds, a splendor of warm nights, which for once indorsed the traditional rhapsodies of the poets.  The little party of friends which had met at Assisi moved on together to Siena and Perugia, except for Marion Vincent and Frobisher.  They quietly bade farewell, and went their way.

When Marion kissed Diana at parting, she said, with emphasis: 

“Now, remember!—­you are not to come to London!  You are not to go to work in the East End.  I forbid it!  You are to go home—­and look lovely—­and be happy!”

Diana’s eyes gazed wistfully into hers.

“I am afraid—­I hadn’t thought lately of coming to London,” she murmured.  “I suppose—­I’m a coward.  And just now I should be no good to anybody.”

“All right.  I don’t care for your reasons—­so long as you go home—­and don’t uproot.”

Marion held her close.  She had heard all the girl’s story, had shown her the most tender sympathy.  And on this strange wedding journey of hers she knew that she carried with her Diana’s awed love and yearning remembrance.

But now she was eager to be gone—­to be alone again with her best friend, in this breathing-space that remained to them.