Slowly, he took away his hands. Now he recalled the voice. The whole dream came back. It was summer--summer in England. They were in a field where cattle grazed under the warm shadows of high elm trees. Cowslips grew there, standing up through the grass with their thin, white, velvet stems; here and there an orchid with spotted leaves, a group of scabii bending their feathered heads in the heat of the day. Jill sat sewing little garments, and he lay idle, stretched upon his back, gazing up into the endless blue where the white clouds sailed like little ships, making for distant harbours. And as she sewed, she talked of things more wonderful than God had made the day; of things that women, in the most sacred moments of their life, sometimes reveal to men. This was the dream he had forgotten. In his sleep, he had known that it was a dream; had known that he must remember it all his life; yet in the morning, but faintly recollected he had dreamt at all. Now, those two words of hers--little child--and the summer day, the browsing cattle, the white flutter of the tiny garments, the scent of the fields and the sound of her voice had all returned in one swift rush of memory. "What do you mean?" he asked slowly--"if you leave me now, what do you mean? What do you mean by--little child?" Both hands, she put out; both hands to clasp on his. The tears ceased gathering in her eyes. Before God and in great moments, the eyes forget their tears; there is no trembling of the lips; the voice is clear and true. "Don’t you remember what he said?" she asked. "’Make your lives out of love, as I have made mine. Make your children out of love as I have made mine.’ Did you think I could hear that from him without knowing what you yourself have said just now, that there is no such thing as Duty?" John stared at her. He dared not interpose. He dared not even answer the question she had asked, for fear his voice should break the linking of her thoughts. "Can you hear him saying--’Make your lives out of duty, as I have made mine. Make your children out of duty as I have made mine?’ Can you imagine him saying that? Can you feel how it would have grated on your ears? Yet that’s just what I’m going to do; but I didn’t realise it till then." "What is it you’re going to say?" he asked below his breath. "What is it you’re leading to? All this is leading to something. What is it?" "That I’m not going to leave you, little child. That if, after all, there is such a thing as Duty, he has shown me what it is." The gondola bumped against the steps. The voice of the gondolier called out that their destination was reached. John rose quickly to his feet. "Go back," he said. "Go back to the hotel." Away they started again and as he plied his oar, the gondolier gazed up at the stars, and hummed a muffled tune.