"Yes. And now I can understand anything _you_ may say or do ... I couldn't, yesterday." She turned her face away from him and folded her hands over the newel-post. And, not looking at him, she said: "Since we have been here alone together I have known a confidence and security I never dreamed of. Nothing now matters, nothing causes apprehension, nothing of fear remains--not even that ignorance of fear which the world calls innocence. "I am what I am; I am not afraid to be and live what I have become.... I am capable of love. Yesterday I was not. I have been fashioned to love, I think.... But there is only one man who can make me certain.... My trust and confidence are wholly his--as fearlessly as though he had become this day my husband.... "And if he will stay, here under this roof which is not mine unless it is his also--here in this house where, within the law or without it, nevertheless everything is his--then he enters into possession of what is his own. And I at last receive my birthright,--which is to serve where I am served, love where love is mine--with gratitude, and unafraid--" Her voice trembled, broke; she covered her face with her hands; and when he took her in his arms she leaned her forehead against his breast: --"Oh, Clive--I can't deny them!--How can I deny them?--The little flower-like faces, pleading to me for life!--And their tender arms--around my neck--there in the garden, Clive!--The winsome lips on mine, warm and heavenly sweet; and the voices calling, calling from the golden woodland, calling from meadow and upland, height and hollow!--And sometimes like far echoes of wind-blown laughter they call me--gay little voices, confident and sweet; and sometimes, winning and shy, they whisper close to my cheek--mother!--mother--" His arms fell from her and he stepped back, trembling. She lifted her pale tear-stained face. And, save for the painted Virgins of an ancient day he never before had seen such spiritual passion in any face--features where nothing sensuous had ever left an imprint; where the sensitive, tremulous mouth curved with the loveliness of a desire as innocent as a child's. And he read there no taint of lesser passion, nothing of less noble emotion; only a fearless and overwhelming acknowledgment of her craving to employ the gifts with which her womanhood endowed her--love and life, and service never ending. * * * * * In her mother's room they sat long talking, her hands resting on his, her fresh and delicate face a pale white blur in the dusk. It was very late before he went to the room allotted him, knowing that he could not hope for sleep. Seated there by his open window he heard the owl's tremolo rise, quaver, and die away in the moonlight; he heard the murmuring plaint of marsh-fowl, and the sea-breeze stirring the reeds.