She thought of how Insall had made those early days live for her, in his story of Basil Grelott.  But to save her soul, when with such an opening, she could not speak of it.

“He had to work pretty hard, of course,” Insall continued, “but I dare say he had a fairly happy life, no movies, no Sunday supplements, no automobiles or gypsy moths.  His only excitement was to trudge ten miles to Dorset and listen to a three hour sermon on everlasting fire and brimstone by a man who was supposed to know.  No wonder he slept soundly and lived to be over ninety!”

Insall was standing with his head thrown back, his eyes stilt seemingly fixed on the musket that had suggested his remark—­a pose eloquent, she thought, of the mental and physical balance of the man.  She wondered what belief gave him the free mastery of soul and body he possessed.  Some firm conviction, she was sure, must energise him yet she respected him the more for concealing it.

“It’s hard to understand such a terrible religion!” she cried.  “I don’t see how those old settlers could believe in it, when there are such beautiful things in the world, if we only open our eyes and look for them.  Oh Mr. Insall, I wish I could tell you how I felt when I read your story, and when Mrs. Maturin read me those other books of yours.”

She stopped breathlessly, aghast at her boldness—­and then, suddenly, a barrier between them seemed to break down, and for the first time since she had known him she felt near to him.  He could not doubt the sincerity of her tribute.

“You like them as much as that, Janet?” he said, looking at her.

“I can’t tell you how much, I can’t express myself.  And I want to tell you something else, Mr. Insall, while I have the chance—­how just being with you and Mrs. Maturin has changed me.  I can face life now, you have shown me so much in it I never saw before.”

“While you have the chance?” he repeated.

“Yes.”  She strove to go on cheerfully, “Now I’ve said it, I feel better, I promise not to mention it again.  I knew—­you didn’t think me ungrateful.  It’s funny,” she added, “the more people have done for you-when they’ve given you everything, life and hope,—­the harder it is to thank them.”  She turned her face away, lest he might see that her eyes were wet.  “Mrs. Maturin will be expecting us.”

“Not yet,” she heard him say, and felt his hand on her arm.  “You haven’t thought of what you’re doing for me.”

“What I’m doing for you!” she echoed.  “What hurts me most, when I think about it, is that I’ll never be able to do anything.”

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

“If I only could believe that some day I might be able to help you—­just a little—­I should be happier.  All I have, all I am I owe to you and Mrs. Maturin.”

“No, Janet,” he answered.  “What you are is you, and it’s more real than anything we could have put into you.  What you have to give is —­yourself.”  His fingers trembled on her arm, but she saw him smile a little before he spoke again.  “Augusta Maturin was right when she said that you were the woman I needed.  I didn’t realize it then perhaps she didn’t—­but now I’m sure of it.  Will you come to me?”