Even as he spoke there was a little bustle and scurry outside the door, and before it opened Riversley was on his feet and moving towards it. Mrs. North stood there, half laughing, half crying. “Oh, she is better!” she cried. “She has gone into a real sleep. Nurse says we may hope. She will get well.” She dropped on to her knees by the fire and buried her face against the cushions of the sofa, sobbing and crying, while Riversley tore across the hall and up the stairs two steps at a time. * * * * * It was early on the following morning that Violet Riversley opened her eyes and looked at her husband with recognition in them. “Dear old Freddy,” she said weakly. “What’s the matter?” He put his arms round her with the tears running down his cheeks, and she nestled to him like a tired child and fell asleep again. When she woke the second time the room was full of the pale November sunshine. She looked round it curiously for a moment, then her mind seemed to give up the effort to remember where she was and she looked at him. “I do love you, Freddy,” she said. The morning sounds of the farm came in through the open window and she smiled. “Of course, I’m at Thorpe. I dreamt I was with Dick.” Outside, Ruth went across the terrace to her farm work. Her face was that of one who holds secure some hidden store of happiness. She sang to herself as she went: “When I have reached my journey’s end, And I am dead and free.” The words floated up clear and sweet through the still air. “Dead and free.” Violet repeated them in a small faint voice, and again Fear gripped Riversley by the throat. He longed to hold her more closely and dared not. There seemed no perceptible substance to hold. His mouth went dry while he struggled with his difficulty of speech. “The journey is worth making too, Vi,” he said. The husky strangled voice made its appeal. She looked with more of understanding into his bloodshot eyes, his haggard ravaged face, and her own face became suddenly very sweet and of a marvellous brightness. “Yes,” she said, “the journey is worth making too.” More distant came the sound of Ruth’s song: “I pray that God will let me go And wander with them to and fro, Along the flowered fields I know, That look towards the sea, That look towards the sea.” The white pigeons swooped down about her. The dogs, so long kept in to heel, rushed wildly over the lawn and down to the river, uttering sharp cries of joy. A robin, perched on the coping of the old wall, sang sweet and shrill. She looked out over her beloved fields, over the long valley full of misty sunshine, and was content. The farm was Itself again. She moved on across the lawn leaving footprints on the silver wet grass, to where, standing by the gate, she saw Roger North.