Yet she took courage--she took courage from Grantley, whose crest was not lowered, though his heart was changed. So spoke reason, and to it Sibylla bowed. The array of cases, the marshalling of instances--all that the people and the lives about her had represented and typified--their moral was not to be denied. But reason is not the sole governor, nor even the only teacher. It might open her eyes; it might even moderate the arrogance of her demands; it could not change the temper of her heart. She was not even chilled, far less embittered. She went forth to meet life and love as ardently as ever. The change was that she knew more what these things were which she started forth to welcome, and perceived better to what she must attune herself. She would hope and enjoy still. But she asked no more a privilege over her fellows. She could hope as a mortal without immunity from evil, and enjoy as one to whom there is allotted a portion of sorrow--and not of her own only, nor perhaps of her making, nor of her fault, since by her own act and by nature's will her being was bound up with the being of others, and her happiness or misery, success or failure, lay in the common fortune and the common weal. For any mortal perfect independence is a vain thing fondly imagined--most vain and fond when it is demanded together with all for which any approach to it was once eagerly abandoned. The battle was won. As John Fanshaw sacrificed his great grievance, so she hers. As old Mumple had expiated his fault and paid his price, so she hers. As Grantley schooled his heart, so she hers. She walked with him that night in the garden while the rest made merry with games and songs and jokes within, their gay laughter echoing down to the old house where the long-parted husband and wife sat at last hand in hand. She bowed her head, and put her hands in Grantley's, saying: "At the first sign from you it was easy to forgive. How could I not forgive you? But it's hard to ask to be forgiven, Grantley?" "It was necessary that these things should come," he answered gravely. "They have come and gone. What are they now between thee and me?" Wisdom had made her point, and for a while now she wisely held her peace, leaving her work to another who should surely bring it to an excellent issue--to love, tempered by sorrow and self-knowledge, yet triumphant, and looking forward to new days, new births, new victories. "The old time is done," said Grantley. "There's a new dawn. And, Sibylla, the sunrise is golden still." "My ever true lover, we'll ride on the downs to-morrow," said she. "Into the gold?" he asked, in loving banter. "Yes," she answered bravely. "Haven't we found the way now?" "It may be hard to keep it." "We shall be together--you and I. And more than you and me. And--and--well, I intend to be unreasonable again just for this evening! I'll expect everything, and demand everything, and dream everything again, just for to-night--just for to-night, Grantley!"