Neale being his own master, a free citizen of life, knew what a kingdom he owned, and with a magnanimity unparalleled could not rest till she had entered hers.  She, not divining what she had not known, had only wished to make the use of his strength which would have weakened her.  Had there ever before been any man who refused to let the woman he loved weaken herself by the use of his strength?  Had a man ever before held out his strong hand to a woman to help her forward, not to hold her fast?

Her life was her own.  She stood in it, knowing it to be an impregnable fortress, knowing that from it she could now look abroad fearlessly and understandingly, knowing that from it she could look at things and men and the world and see what was there.  From it she could, as if for the first time, look at Vincent Marsh when next she saw him; she would look to see what was really there.  That was all.  She would look at him and see what he was, and then she would know the meaning of what had happened, and what she was to do.  And no power on earth could prevent her from doing it.  The inner bar that had shut her in was broken.  She was a free woman, free from that something in her heart that was afraid.  For the moment she could think of nothing else beyond the richness of that freedom.  Why, here was the total fulfilment she had longed for.  Here was the life more abundant, within, within her own heart, waiting for her!

* * * * *

The old clock in the hall behind her sounded four muffled strokes and, as if it had wakened her, Agnes stirred in her bed and cried out in a loud voice of terror, “Oh, come quick, Miss Marise!  Come!”

Marise went through the hail and to her door, and saw the frightened old eyes glaring over the pulled-up sheet.  “Oh . . . oh . . . it’s you . . .  I thought. . . .  Oh, Miss Marise, don’t you see anything standing in that corner?  Didn’t you hear. . . .  Oh, Miss Marise, I must have had a bad dream.  I thought . . .”  Her teeth were chattering.  She did not know what she was saying.

“It’s all right, Agnes,” said Marise soothingly, stepping into the room.  “The big clock just struck four.  That probably wakened you.”

She sat down on the bed and laid her hand firmly on Agnes’ shoulder, looking into the startled old eyes, which grew a little quieter now that someone else was there.  What a pitiable creature Agnes’ dependence on Cousin Hetty had made of her.

Like the boom from a great bell came the thought, “That is what I wanted Neale to make of me, when the crucial moment came, a dependent . . . but he would not.”

“What time did you say it is?” Agnes asked, still breathing quickly but with a beginning of a return to her normal voice.

“Four o’clock,” answered Marise gently, as to a child.  “It must be almost light outside.  The last night when you have anything to fear is over now.”

She went to the window and opened the shutter.  The ineffable sacred pureness of another dawn came in, gray, tranquil, penetrating.