And Laura?  His heart was flooded with tenderness, and he felt again a confident, an almost mystic assurance that her destiny was one with his.  In this growing conviction his anxiety appeared to him suddenly as a pitiable and cowardly denial of his faith—­and he was possessed by the certainty that he had only to send out his will in order to smooth the way of her return to peace.

The room had become warm, and opening the window he stood looking beyond the housetops to the stars which shone dimly over the city.  The noise in the streets grew fainter in his ears, and as he stood there with his eyes on the stars, he could tell himself in the joy of his reconciliation, that the law by which they moved gloriously toward their end was the law which controlled his own and Laura’s life.  The sense which is less a belief than an intimate knowledge of immortality belonged to him now, and he realised that so far as he lived at all he lived not in the hour alone, but in eternity, that so far as he had won peace it was bound up in a passionate conviction of the survival of the universe within his soul.  To-day or to-morrow, in the minute or in eternity, he saw that wherever God is there will always be immortal life.

Turning back into the room he looked again at Laura’s picture with a longing which had not freed itself as yet from the idea of renouncement.  Even now he realised that he had been strong enough to live without her, and with the admission, he was aware again of that wider sympathy which had been his compensation in a forefeiture of personal love.  His happiness he had told himself a year ago depended neither upon possession nor upon any passage of events, yet to-night his heart strained after her in a tenderness which seemed to bring her visible presence before him in the room.  His love for her appeared not only as a part of his love for God, but as a part, also, of his sorrows, his bitter patience, his renouncement and of the compassion which had sprung from the agony and the enlightenment of his failure.  Sorrow he could still feel—­the deepest human grief might be his portion to-morrow, but while this unfading light shone in his soul, he knew that it was ordained that he should conquer in the end.  By this knowledge alone he had at last won through suffering into the open places of the spirit where were joy and freedom.

A ring at the bell startled him from his abstraction, and with an impatient eagerness for news, he hastened to the door, where a boy thrust at him a small folded sheet of paper.  As he opened it he felt that his had trembled, for even before he read the words, he knew that Laura’s appeal to him had come.

“I need a friend.  Will you help me?” was all that she had written.

He motioned the boy to come inside, and then stood looking at him enquiringly as he got into his overcoat.

“Do you go back with me?” he asked.

The boy nodded while he pulled at a scarlet handkerchief about his neck.  Adams noticed that though he was stunted and anaemic in appearance, he wore his shabby overcoat with an almost rakish swagger.  His mouth was filled with chewing-gum which he rolled aside in his cheek when he talked.