A square, rimmed in solid black, of something full of distant, colorless clarity. Not quite colorless, since an intense turquoise-blue seemed to move far behind it, like a wave. Catherine stared. She had come awake so suddenly that she could only see that square at first, without knowledge of it. Then, as suddenly, she knew. It was the sky, over the black rim of the opposite wall of the court, with window edges for its frame. Almost morning. What a strange dream, digging, trying to push the spade down through roots of dead grass, while someone kept saying, "Make it larger. That won't hold her." Had Spencer called out? Fully awake, she lifted herself on an elbow. The house was quiet. She could see dimly between her and the window the dark mound of Charles's head on his pillow. That queer dream. As she lay down again, she had it, in a swift flash of association. The Actinidia vine! Bury an old hen at its roots, she had told Bill. She was digging, for herself. Oh, grotesque! And yet, before she had slept, she had not thought of herself. She had worked patiently, tenderly, to restore Charles. She could hear him, humble, "You mean that, Cathy? You think this isn't a horrible failure? I couldn't prevent it, could I? After all--" and gradually she had drawn him clear of his forlorn dejection. The patch of sky grew opaque, white. Morning. There is no wall between us now, she thought. That is down. Love--tenderness--strength--sweet, fiery, ecstasy--all that he wished. Surely he would, in turn--lift her--into her whole self. X Charles had taken the children out for a Sunday afternoon walk. They wanted Catherine, too. "The air will do you good, if you _are_ tired," urged Charles. "But Margaret is coming in." Catherine stretched lazily in her chair. "And I don't want to budge." Charles had gone, resignation in his voice as he corralled the children out of the door. Catherine closed her eyes. She was eager to see Margaret, and yet a little afraid. She was too like an old scrap bag crammed with thoughts and feelings, tangled, unsorted; and Margaret would want to shake out the bag, sweeping away the jumble of contents. Charles had said, that morning, "Queer, how down I felt yesterday. That pork roast Friday night was too heavy. Tell Mrs. O'Lay, will you, to go easy on the pork." And then, hastily, "Talking things out with you cleared the air, too. I can see I'd had an exaggerated line on them. I have a plan I want to talk over, some time soon." Charles, restored, could call his malady pork! At the same time--Catherine rose hastily as the bell clattered. At the same time, she thought, walking down the hall, there had been gratitude, hidden, unspoken, and release in the feeling between them. That feeling was the air itself, intangible, invisible, but holding all these other things of shape or solidity. Charles was himself again, confident, assured, almost boisterous.