Never the less Simon's gravest apprehensions were relieved. Almost with the first glimmer of returning consciousness she had divined the truth and it had not wrecked her, for after that first rain of tears, the strange and lofty look of peace returned to her face. André had been unhappy; now he was no longer so. His need of her guidance had been imperative; now that need no longer existed. Dear heart, dear, simple, clinging soul! And the comforting comparison struck her of a little lost child with its hand safely locked at last in the hand of the All-Father. She spoke no more until evening; then, as if pursuing a subject that had just been mentioned: "And Emil will go with him? He will see André's mother?" "Yes, dearest." "And he will tell her the truth? For you must explain to Emil, Simon, that he need not hide the truth from Lizzie. Any fiction about André she'd see through: she's his mother. And Emil is to say that I will write and that soon I will come." "Yes, he will tell her." "And before they start, Emil and Annie,--they will come here?" She was so bent on seeing them it seemed unwise to oppose her. When Simon leaned over her bed in the morning, he knew from her expression that she was alert to the muffled commotion below stairs--to those sharp hammerings, those stealthy treads, those silences--throbbingly alert, although there was no diminution in the radiance of her eyes. "They have come, dearest," he said, and left the room. Emil and Annie came forward. Never before at any time had they seen Rachel as she appeared to them now. The courage of her strong young face was mingled with a look of unutterable sweetness. She reached a hand to each. Instantly Annie was on her knees and Rachel had her head in the curve of a feeble arm. She pressed Annie's head to her breast with fingers tremulous with blessing as a mother's. They said nothing--no words were needed. Rising, Annie stole to a distant window. Rachel had kept her hold on Emil. Now once more she looked at him with a smile that expressed more love than she had ever shown him before. Such complete, such utter tenderness, he had never dreamed eyes could hold. And yet in those soft depths so earthly-sweet, he saw renunciation shining through devotion. He blanched. In a voice in which there was a tremour she could not control, Rachel spoke of his work and of herself as watching his progress with eagerness. "For I long, I long more than you can realize to have you make the best possible use of your life. I have set my hopes on you, such high hopes, Emil; and you will not disappoint me." Finally, panting a little but with electrical energy, with exquisite passionateness, she spoke of the open vision of love. "It is," she said, letting her eyes dwell wistfully in his, "the forgetting of ourselves and--and the abandonment of our self-seeking. This is the soul's way out. And it is the only way out," she insisted.