The years had come to her in this stifling city, amid her struggling and wrestling of spirit, but the strong soul in her had borne her up through all, she had aged without wearying, grown older and sadder without withering from her intense womanhood.  Broader of hip a little, as Ned could see with the keen eyes of love, not quite so slender in the waist, fuller in the uncorsetted bust, more sloping of shoulder as though the pillared neck had fleshed somewhat at the base; the face, too, had gathered form and force, in the freer curve of her will-full jaw, in the sterner compression of fuller lips that told their tale of latent passions strangely bordering on the cruel, in the sweeter blending of Celt and Saxon shown in straight nose, strong cheek-bones and well-marked brows.  She trod still with the swinging spring of the bill-people, erect and careless.  Only the white gleam of her collar and a dash of colour in her hat broke the sombre hue that clothed her, as before, from head to foot.

Ned devoured her with his eyes as she came rapidly towards him, unconscious of his presence.  She was full grown at last, in woman’s virgin prime, her mind, her soul, her body, all full and strong with pure thoughts, natural instincts and human passions.  Her very sadness gave her depths of feeling that never come to those who titter and fritter youth away.  Her very ignoring of the love-instincts in her, absorbed as her thoughts were in other things, only gave those instincts the untrammelled freedom that alone gives vigorous growth.  She was barbarian, as her thoughts had been beside the dying baby:  the barbarian cultured, as Shakespeare was, the barbarian wronged, as was Spartacus, the barbarian hating and loving and yearning and throbbing, the creature of her instincts, a rebel against restrictions, her mind subject only to her own strong will.  She was a woman of women, in Ned’s eyes at least.  One kiss from her would be more than all other women could give, be their self-abandonment what it might.  To be her lover, her husband, a man might yield up his life with a laugh, might surrender all other happiness and be happy ever after.  There was none like her in the whole world to Ned, not one—­and he came to say good-bye to her, perhaps for ever.

In the black shadows thrown by the high-rising moon, the crossing alley-way cut a slice of brilliancy as if with a knife.  From the shadow into the moonshine two hands stretched towards her as Ned’s voice greeted her.  She saw his tall form looming before her.

“Ned!” she cried, in answer, grasping both his hands and drawing him forward into the light.  “I was expecting you.  I’ve been thinking of you every minute for the last week.  How tired you look!  You’re not ill?”

“No!  I’m all right,” he answered, laughing.  “It’s those confounded trains.  I can’t sleep on them, and they always give me a headache.  But you’re looking well, Nellie.  I can’t make out how you do it in this stuffed-up town.”