The body grows slowly, but the soul progresses by leaps and bounds. Through a single hurt or a single joy, the soul of a child may reach man's estate, never to go backward, but always on. And so, through a great love and her own complete comprehension of its meaning, Edith had grown in a night out of herself, into a beautiful fellowship with the whole world. Strangely uplifted and forever at peace, she rose from her chair. The blanket slipped away from her, and her loosened hair flowed back over her shoulders, catching gleams of starlight as it fell. She stretched out her arms in yearning toward Alden, her husband, Madame--indeed, all the world, having come out of self into service; through the love of one to the love of all. Then, through the living darkness, came the one clear call: "Mine?" Unmistakably the answer surged back: "In all the ways of Heaven and for always, I am thine." XIX If Love Were All [Sidenote: When the Shadows Lengthen] The last of the packing was done, and four trunks stood in the lower hall, waiting for the expressman. Alden had not seen Edith that day, though he had haunted the house since breakfast, waiting and hoping for even a single word. She had been too busy to come down to luncheon, and had eaten only a little from the tray Madame sent to her room. She was to take the early train in the morning. The afternoon shadows had begun to lengthen when she came down, almost as white as her fresh linen gown, but diffusing about her some radiance from within that seemed not wholly of earth. He met her at the foot of the stairs, and took her hand in his. "Edith! I've been longing for you all day!" "And I for you," she returned, avoiding his eyes. "Listen, dear. Give me the rest of it, won't you?" [Sidenote: For the Last Time] "The rest of what?" "The little time you have left with us--this afternoon and to-night." For a moment she hesitated, then looked him full in the face, her eyes mutely questioning his. "I won't," he said. "I promise you that." "Then I'll come." "Out on the river?" "Yes." "It's for the last time, Edith," he said, sadly; "the very last time." "I know," she returned. Her lips quivered a little, but her eyes did not falter. Clear and steadfast they looked far beyond him into the future where he had no part. The golden lights in them seemed signal fires now, summoning him mysteriously onward to some high service, not alien, even though apart from her. They said no more until they were in the boat, swinging out upon the sunlit river. Then Edith glanced at him, half shyly. "Wasn't last night wonderful?" "Wasn't it!" he echoed. "I never understood before." "Nor I." She trailed a white hand in the water as they sped up stream. The light touched her hair lovingly, bringing gleams of gold and amber from the depths. [Sidenote: Alden's Silence] "Dear," he said, "did you think that, after last night, I could urge you to violate your solemn oath or even to break your word?"