We stared at one another for a moment without speech. It seemed as if the forest, the meadows, the little rivulet of cool, clear water, the entire valley itself became articulate--through her. Her personality rushed over me like a gush of wind. In her enthusiasm and belief rose the glow of fire. “You feel the same,” she went on, with conviction in her voice, “or you wouldn’t try to pretend you don’t. You wouldn’t try to hide it.” And the authority grew visibly upon her face. There was a touch of something imperious as well. “You see, I can’t speak to _him_ about it, I can’t ask him”--jerking her head towards the room upstairs--“because”--she faltered oddly for a second--“because it’s about himself. I mean he knows it _all_. And if I asked him--my God, he’d tell me!” “You prefer not to know?” She smiled and shrugged her shoulders with a curious gesture impossible to interpret. “I long to know,” she replied, “but I’m half afraid”--she shivered slightly--“to hear everything. I feel as if it would change me--into--someone else.” The last words were spoken almost below her breath. But the joy broke loose in me as I heard. It was another state of consciousness she dreaded yet desired. This new consciousness was creeping over her as well. She shared it with me; our innate sympathy was so deep and perfect. More, it was a type of consciousness we had shared together before. An older day rose hauntingly about us both. We felt-with one another. “For yourself?” I asked, dropping pretence as useless any longer. “You feel afraid for yourself?” She moved the lamp aside with a gesture so abrupt it seemed almost violent; no object intervened between our gaze; and she leaned forward, folding her hands upon the white tablecloth. I sat rigidly still and watched her. Her face was very near to mine. I could see myself reflected in her glowing eyes. “Not for myself, Professor, nor for you,” she said in a low voice. Then, dropping the tone to a whisper, “but for him. I’ve felt it on and off ever since we came up here last spring. But since you’ve come, I’ve known it positive--that something’ll happen to Julius--before we leave--and before you leave....” “But, Mrs. LeVallon----” “And it’s something we can’t prevent,” she went on whispering, “neither of us--nor oughter prevent either--because it’s something we’ve got to do all three together.” The intense conviction in her manner blocked utterance in me. “Something I want to do, what’s more,” she continued, “because it’s sort of magnificent--if it comes off proper and as it should--magnificent for all of us, and like a great vision or something. _You_ know what I mean. We are together in it, but this old valley and the whole world is somehow in it, too. I can’t quite understand. It’s very wonderful. Julius will suffer, too, only he’ll call it jest development.” Her voice sank lower still. “D’you know, Professor, I sometimes feel there’s something in Julius that seems to me like--God.”