A perfect circle of shadow was flung on the high ceiling from the lamp.  Outside of the shadow were the familiar window draperies, the white mantel with its old candlesticks, the exquisite crayon portrait of Jim at three, and Derry a delicious eighteen-months-old.  There was the white bowl that had always been filled with violets, empty now.  And there were the low bookcases where a few special favorites were kept, and the quaint old mahogany sewing-table that had been old Mrs. Gregory’s as a bride.

Rachael was exhausted in every fibre of body and soul, consecutive thought was impossible now; her aching head defied the effort, but lying here, in this dim light, there came to her a vision of the years that might be.  If she were ever rested again, if little Derry were again his sunny, resolute self, if Warren and she were reunited, then what an ideal of fine and simple and unselfish living would be hers!  How she would cling to honor and truth and goodness, how she would fortify herself against the pitfalls dug by her own impulsiveness.  She and Warren had everything in life worth while, it was not for them to throw their gifts away.  Their home should be the source of help to other homes, their sons should some day go out into the world equipped with wisdom, disciplined and self-controlled, ready to meet life far more bravely than ever their mother had.

There was a low voice at her door.  Alice was gone, and Warren was kneeling beside her.  And as she laid one tired arm about his neck, in the dear familiar fashion of the past, and as their eyes met, Rachael felt that all her life had been a preparation for this exquisite minute.

“I thought you would like to know that he is sleeping, and we have moved him,” Warren said.  “In three days you will have him roaring to get up.”

Tears brimmed Rachael’s eyes.

“You saved him,” she whispered.

“You saved him; George says so, too.  If that fellow down there had given him chloroform, there would have been no chance.  Our only hope was to relieve that pressure on his heart, and take the risk of it being too much for him.  He’s as strong as a bull.  But it was a fight!  And no one but a woman would have rushed him up here in the rain.”

Rachael’s eyes were streaming.  She could not speak.  She clung to her husband’s hand for a moment or two of silence.

“And now, I want to speak to you,” Warren said, ending it.  “I have nothing to say in excuse.  I know—­I shall know all my life, what I have done.  It is like a bad dream.”

His uncertain voice stopped.  Husband and wife looked full at each other, both breathing quickly, both faces drawn and tense.

“But, Rachael,” Warren went on, “I think, if you knew how I have suffered, that you would—­that some day, you would forgive me.  I was never happy.  Never anything but troubled and excited and confused.  But for the last few months, in this empty house, seeing other men with their wives, and thinking what a wife you were—­It has been like finding my sight—­like coming out of a fever—­” He paused.  Rachael did not speak.