Her lips quivered in a smile. "Piers!" she said. "Can you picture it?" "Yes, I can. Because I know that only patience can have brought him to where he is at present. They say it is nothing short of a miracle, and I believe it. God often works His miracles that way. And I always knew that Piers was great." Crowther's slow smile appeared, transforming his whole face. He held Avery's hand for a little, and let it go. "So you will do this, will you?" he said. "I think the boy would be just about pleased to find you there. And you can depend on me to bring him down to you as soon as he is able to bear it." "You are very good," Avery said. "Yes, I will go." But, as Crowther knew, in going she accepted the hardest part; and the weeks that she then spent at Rodding Abbey waiting, waiting with a sick anxiety, left upon her a mark which no time could ever erase. When Crowther's message came to her at last, she was almost too crushed to believe. Everything was in readiness, had been in readiness for weeks. She had prepared in fevered haste, telling herself that any day might bring him. But day had followed day, and the news had always been depressing, first of weakness, fits of pain, terrible collapses, and again difficult recoveries. Not once had she been told that any ground had been gained. And so when one day a telegram reached her earlier than usual, she hardly dared to open it, so little did she anticipate that the news could be good. And even when the words stared her in the face: "Bringing Piers this afternoon, Crowther," she could not for awhile believe them, and sought instinctively to read into them some sinister meaning. How she got through that day, she never afterwards knew. The hours dragged leaden-footed. There was nothing to be done. She would not leave the house lest by some impossible chance he might arrive before the afternoon, but she felt that to stay within its walls was unendurable. So for the most part she paced the terrace, breathing the dank, autumnal air, picturing every phase of his journey, but never daring to picture his arrival, praying piteous, disjointed prayers that only her own soul seemed to hear. The afternoon began to wane, and dusk came down. A small drifting rain set in with the darkness, but she was not even aware of it till David, very deferential and subdued, came to her and suggested that if she would wait in the hall Sir Piers would see her at once, as he had taken the liberty to turn on all the lights.