There lies the heart of it, the realization of the ego in the personality. Sally had her own way. In the face of abuse, in the face of reproach, she packed her leather trunk. All those little idols of sentiment, the clock that ticked on her mantelshelf, the pictures that hung on the walls; the books she had collected, even the copy of Browning that she did not understand--they all were stowed away into the leather trunk. She went out of the house, she went out of the home as a moth flies out of a darkened room, and you know that unless you kindle a light to lure it back, it will never return. They knew they could never kindle the light. They knew she would never come back. What love had they to offer as an inducement? And no love of her relations is an inducement to the woman who is seeking her own. Only the Rev. Samuel shed tears over her. She came into his study one morning after breakfast to say good-bye. He was writing a new sermon for the season of Easter, and his mind was raking up the past as a man unearths some buried thing that the mould has rotted. The sunlight was pouring in through the window as he bent over his desk nursing thoughts that were vermin in his brain. "You're going, Sally?" he said. "Yes, father." He stood up from his chair and looked at her--looked her up and down as though he wished the sight of her to last in his memory for the rest of his life. "What time do you get to London?" "Half-past one." "And you've arranged about where you're going to stay?" "Yes, I'm going to share rooms with Miss Hallard--" "The girl who's going to be an artist?" "Yes; she has lodgings near Kew." "Ah, Kew. Yes, Kew. I remember walking from Kew to Richmond, along by the gardens, when I was quite a young man. So you're going there, Sally?" His eyes still roamed over her. "Yes, father. What are you doing? Are you writing a sermon?" That little interest in his own affairs awakened him. Animation crept into his eyes. It was the slight, subtle touch that a woman knows how to bestow. "Yes, I'm writing a sermon, Sally, for next Sunday--Easter Sunday--listen to this--" In the pride of composition, having none but her who would appreciate his efforts, he took up one of the papers with almost trembling hands. "There can be no hope without promise, and in the rising of our Lord from the dead, we have the promise of everlasting life. For just as He, on that Sabbath morning, defied the prison walls of the sepulchre, and was lifted beyond earthly things to those things that are spiritual, so shall we, if we defy the things of this world--its pomps and its vanities and all the sinful lusts of the flesh--so shall we win to the things that are eternal rather than those which are temporal and void." He looked up at her, waiting eagerly for the words of her approval to convince him of what he was scarcely convinced himself. Before she could utter them, Mrs. Bishop entered the room.