He caressed the bowed head tenderly for an instant, then releasing himself, he clapped his hand on Herold's shoulder and shook it with rough affection. “I 'm going to bed,” said he. He moved to the door. There he paused to nod a good night; but at sight of them both looking sadly at him he walked back a couple of paces. “Don't worry about me. I'm at peace with myself for the first time for years. There 's lots of happiness in the world left.” He smiled again. “Enough for the three of us--and for Unity.” He left them, and went to bed in the room which Stellamaris had furnished for him long ago, and fell into the sleep of the man who has found rest at last in the calm and certain knowledge of spiritual things. Unity had not died in vain. And Stellamaris, sitting once more by Herold's side in the wide bay of the window, and talking with him in a hushed voice of the wondrous things that had come to pass, knew that John Risca had spoken a great truth. It had been God's will that so should the terrible splendour of the world be made manifest. Herold asked for the million-billionth time in the history of mankind: “When did you first find that you loved me?” She replied, perhaps more truly than most maidens: “There was never a time when I did n't love you. I mean--I don't quite know what I mean,” she said confusedly. “You see, I 've lived a strange life, dear,” she went on. “You seem to have been a part of me ever since I can remember what is worth remembering. You have always understood things that went on inside me almost before I could tell them to you. I always wanted you to explain foolishness that I could n't speak of to any one else.” “That's very beautiful,” Herold interrupted, “but love is a different matter. When did the real love come to you?” “I think it was that morning in the garden when you almost whipped me,” said Stella. She started an inch or two away from him. “And I 'm sure you knew it,” she said. And he remembered, as he had often remembered in his great struggle, her eyes, turning from agates to diamonds and her words, “Do you love me like that?” “Heaven knows, Stellamaris dear; I did not mean to betray myself.” She laughed the enigmatic laugh of a woman's contentment, and Herold was too wise to ask why. They spoke of deepest things. “There is something I must tell you,” said he, “which up to now I have had to keep secret, and it is right that you should know.” And he told Her the story of Unity and himself--the revolver, their talk of the evil woman, their parting words, his crazed adventure through the sunny streets. She listened, her body leaning forward, her hands clasped on her knee. When he had finished, she sat without change of attitude.