One evening she was out of doors longer than usual--a soft lingering summer night--so warm that even an invalid could get no harm out of doors. She loved so to see the daylight gradually fade away, and the stars come out above, and over all the wide champaign below a twinkle of little human lights here and there. She took almost a childish pleasure in those lights, thinking as much of the villages and scattered houses--identifying their humanity low down among the billows of the wood or the sweep of the upland slopes--as of the stars above. ‘The greater and the lesser lights,’ she said, and then murmured low to herself, ‘Compensations,’ under her breath. ‘What do you mean by compensations, Carry?’ ‘I do not much believe in them,’ she said. ‘Nothing can compensate for what one loses. It is better not. Looking to the east, Edward, see, there are no lights, but only that silvery misty greyness where any glory might lie hidden only we see it not. Now I have come so far as this I think I like that best.’ ‘So far as what, Carry’ Something cold and chill seemed to come over them like a cloud. ‘It is growing chilly, you ought to come indoors, my love.’ ‘Yes, presently. I have always been fond of the lights--like a baby; but look the other way. You would say at first there was nothing to be seen at all; but there are all the shades of greyness from one tint to another, and everything lying still, putting out no self-assertion, content to be in God’s hand. And so am I, Edward.’ ‘Yes, my love.’ ‘Quite content. I have had everything, and--and nothing. The heart of it has always been stolen from me, all the lights put out; but the dark is sweet too; it is only dim, dim, not discernible--don’t call it dark.’ ‘Carry! whatever you please, dear.’ ‘Edward, do you know what this means--the peace that passeth understanding?’ ‘Carry, my darling, you break my heart. No--how should I know?’ I think I do,’ she said softly. ‘It lies upon your heart like the dew, yet nothing to bring it, no cause, a thing that is without reason, what you would call irrational altogether--that passeth understanding. Edward, if ever you think afterwards, remember that I told you. I think that I have got it--I wanted other things, but they were not given me. I begin to think that this--is the best.’ ‘My dearest, let me carry you in; it is getting quite dark and chilly.’ ‘You are tired of my little sermon, Edward,’ she said, with the faint tender smile which he divined rather than saw. ‘I--tired? of anything you may say or do! But you must not be longer out in the night air. Come, Carry, let me lift you.’ Whether her mind had begun to wander, or if it was a prevision, or what moved her, no one could ever tell. She resisted a little, putting her hands on his arm. ‘You must not forget,’ she said, ‘to give my love to Tom.’