He got up and strode to the window, where, with his back to her, he stared awhile at the last cold glimmer of the sun set.  His big frame and broad shoulders shut out the light to such an extent that when he turned it was toward a darkened room.  He could barely see her, as she sat sidewise to the desk, an arm along the back of her chair.  His attitude bespoke a doubt in his mind that still kept him at a distance.

“You’re not—­you’re not—­saying all this,” he pleaded, “because you think I’ve done anything that calls for a reward?  I said once that I should never take anything from you, and I never shall—­unless it’s something you give only because you can’t help it.”

Her answer was quite prompt.  “I’m not giving anything—­or doing anything.  What has happened seems to me to have come about simply and naturally, like the sunrise or the seasons, because it’s the fullness of time and what God means.  I can’t say more about it than that.  If it depended on my own volition I shouldn’t be able to speak of it so frankly.  But now—­if you want me—­as you wanted me once—­”

She rose and stood by her chair, holding herself proudly and yet with a certain meekness.  With his hands clasped behind him, as though even yet he dared not touch her, he crossed the twilit room toward her.

* * * * *

Late that night Henry Guion stood on the terrace below the Corinthian-columned portico.  There was no moon, but the stars had the gold fire with which they shine when the sky is violet.  Above the horizon a shimmering halo marked the cluster of cities and towns.  In the immediate foreground the great elm was leafless now, but for that reason more clearly etched against the starlight—­line on line, curve on curve, sweeping, drooping, interlaced.  Guion stood with head up and figure erect, as if from strength given back to him.  Even through the darkness he displayed some of the self-assurance and stoutness of heart of the man with whom things are going well.  He was remembering—­questioning—­doubting.

“I had come to the end of the end ... and I prayed ... yes, I prayed....  I asked for a miracle ... and the next day it seemed to have been worked....  Was it the prayer that did it?...  Was it any one’s prayer?...  Was it any one’s faith?...  Was it—­God?...  Had faith and prayer and God anything to do with it?...  Do things happen by coincidence and chance?... or is there a Mind that directs them?...  I wonder!...  I wonder!...”

THE END