Wearied by watching, he slept. Again she was dying. He could hear her voice, trying so hard to be patient. Someone entered, bringing a new body, exactly like the old one but well. She rose and slipped into it, just as if she were trying on a new dress. She caught him by the hand, laughing excitedly. In their gladness, as they left the room, neither of them remembered to look back to the bed; they had no pity for the abandoned fleshly garment. ----And was death no more than that to the dead--clothes cast aside, outworn by the spirit? What a little to make a fuss about! Through the open window dawn was breaking. In a chair Harry slept, his chin fallen forward. Peter rose to his feet and tiptoed over to the still face lying on the pillow, framed in the golden hair. He stood gazing down. The morning wind walked the sea, like the feet of Jesus bringing peace to sinful men. Far back he remembered another early morning when Kay's eyes had been closed and he had heard those same feet walking--snow had lain on the ground. Another girl, strangely like her, with the same bowed mouth and penciled brows, had been stretched beside her. While Kay's eyes were shuttered, the other eyes had opened. As the days went by, the desire grew strong within him to see Glory--he wanted to trace Kay's likeness in the living features. And yet he postponed. It was September. Harry had left for London, called back by work. Letters from Topbury implored his own return. He was afraid to abandon scenes familiar; in losing them he might lose the sense of Kay's spirit presence. Then to him, as to Harry, came the imperative cry of the need of the world. A telegram sent from Paris and forwarded on from Topbury reached him. Of all persons it was from the golden woman. It bade him urgently to join her. He took no notice. Another, saying that it was not she who wanted him but someone whom he could help. A third, still more insistent. The first he had suspected; this last was too pleading for insincerity. He packed up and left. In Paris she met him; even then she refused to tell him why she had sent for him. She was a different golden woman, grave and quiet. The day after his arrival, she took him out to a gray Normandy village. On the train journey she had little to say; only once did she explain herself. A flight of swallows was passing over a meadow going south, moving steadily as a cloud. She met his eyes. “Yes, I'm different. The stork knoweth her appointed times, and the turtle and the crane and the swallow, but----You remember the passage. I didn't know mine. I waited too long. Foolish! Foolish!---- The winter came. My appointed time went by me.” And a little later, “Don't let that happen to you, Peter.”