It was an all-night journey, and only a part of it could be accomplished by train, the line ending at Khanmulla which was reached in the early hours of the morning.  But for Peter’s ministrations Stella would probably have fared ill, but he was an experienced traveller and surrounded her with every comfort that he could devise.  The night was close and dank.  They travelled through pitch darkness.  Stella lay back and tried to sleep; but sleep would not come to her.  She was tired, but repose eluded her.  The beating of the unceasing rain upon the tin roof, and the perpetual rattle of the train made an endless tattoo in her brain from which there was no escape.  She was haunted by the memory of the last journey that she had made along that line when leaving Kurrumpore in the spring, of Ralph and the ever-growing passion in his eyes, of the first wild revolt within her which she had so barely quelled.  How far away seemed those days of an almost unbelievable torture!  She could regard them now dispassionately, albeit with wonder.  She marvelled now that she had ever given herself to such a man.  By the light of experience she realized how tragic had been her blunder, and now that the awful sense of shock and desolation had passed she could be thankful that no heavier penalty had been exacted.  The man had been taken swiftly, mercifully, as she believed.  He had been spared much, and she—­she had been delivered from a fate far worse.  For she could never have come to love him.  She was certain of that.  Lifelong misery would have been her portion, school herself to submission though she might.  She believed that the awakening from that dream of lethargy could not have been long deferred for either of them, and with it would have come a bitterness immeasurable.  She did not think he had ever honestly believed that she loved him.  But at least he had never guessed at the actual repulsion with which at times she had been filled.  She was thankful to think that he could never know that now, thankful that now she had come into her womanhood it was all her own.  She valued her freedom almost extravagantly since it had been given back to her.  And she also valued the fact that in no worldly sense was she the richer for having been Ralph Dacre’s wife.  He had had no private means, and she was thankful that this was so.  She could not have endured to reap any benefit from what she now regarded as a sin.  She had borne her punishment, she had garnered her experience.  And now she walked once more with unshackled feet; and though all her life she would carry the marks of the chain that had galled her she had travelled far enough to realize and be thankful for her liberty.