To see with others' eyes, to judge from their outlook upon life, to estimate life in terms of those upon whom life presses and not in terms of self: that is the secret of happiness, that is the thing in life that I have missed.... "Try me not, O God, in great things. Help me in small. In the small things, in the small, the everyday things, O God, that is where self comes--that is where I shall not see it, that is where, disguised, it will deceive me. To quarrel, to complain, to be impatient--what is it but self? Help me to put myself where each one stands that comes about me. Help me to look with their eyes--how have vexation then? There is no vexation, there is no unhappiness in all this world but what through self a man brings into it. All happiness, this world--in every hour happiness, in every remotest corner happiness. But man lives not in it but in his own world--the world that he himself creates; of which he is the centre; that, however little he be, revolves about him. That is whence is his unhappiness. Others come into his world. Ah, if he can but watch them in it with their own eyes, not with his! God! what a world this world would be if under Thy hand it were governed as man governs the world which he himself creates--as I have governed mine! Tolerance for none but self, pity for none but self, all within it judged, measured, watched in terms of self! Rid me of that! Rid me of self. Help me to see self. Help me to see with others' eyes, not with my own...." So ends his prayer--so ends his vigil. Mr. Bickers returns, and it is towards daybreak. He looks once more at her, smiling, smiling there. He will not even pray for her. Let that which she has done suffice. Let him be judged apart from her--not strengthened if she may live, not shaken if she must die. He goes down the stairs; out into young morning spreading across the sea. CHAPTER XIV PILGRIMAGE I Not to know--in no way to be prevailed upon in this his return to life by knowledge of whether she lives or has died. In no way to be strengthened--but of himself to live--if life has been permitted her; in no way to be shaken if her life has been required. To be judged apart from her.... Come with this Mr. Wriford while for a year he thus places in proof his acceptance. He takes up his life where on his flight from London he had left it. To do that--not to admit his every impulse which calls upon him to hide, to live in seclusion, and there dwell with his memories, cherish his affliction--is part of his bond pledged by her bedside. The secret of happiness has been purchased for him; let him not mock that which has been paid. He has the secret; let him exercise it. Abandonment to grief--what is that but pity of self? Life in retreat, unable to face the world--what is that but admission that his fate, that which affects himself, is harder than he can bear?