Finally this same lady went to church. It was on a Sunday afternoon, the second service; she came in late, and took a seat in the last pew. When had Eve Bruce been to church before? Paul went once in a while. And it was when she saw his head towering above the heads of the shorter people about him, as the congregation rose to repeat the creed--it was then suddenly that the veil was lifted and she saw the truth: this was what she had come for. She did not try to deny it, she comprehended her failure. After this she ceased to struggle, she only tried to be quiet. She lived from day to day, from hour to hour; it was a compromise. "But I shall not be here long; something will separate us; soon, perhaps in a few weeks, it will have come to an end, and then I may never see him again." So she reasoned, passively. About this time Cicely fell ill. The Port aux Pins doctor had at length given a name to her listlessness and her constantly increasing physical weakness; he called it nervous prostration (one of the modern titles for grief, or an aching heart). "What do you advise?" Paul had asked. "Take her away." Two days later they were living under tents at Jupiter Light. "We cannot get off this evening; it is perfectly impossible," the judge had declared, bewildered by Paul's sudden decision, not knowing as yet whether he agreed with it or not, and furthermore harried by the arrival of tents, provisions, Indians, cooks, and kettles, the kettles invading even the dining-room, his especial retreat. "Oh, we shall go; never you fear," said Hollis, who was hard at work boxing up an iron bedstead. "At the last moment Paul will drive us all on board like a flock of sheep."