The world, even when represented by her best friends, had labelled her a strong-minded woman. By universal consent she had been cast for the part, and perforce must go through with it. She heard steps coming up the Virginia cork passage and concluded that Mrs. Maryon was bringing her an expected postcard from Lucy. "Come in," she said, not raising her head from the table. The person who had come in was not, however, Mrs. Maryon. He came up to the table with its solitary candle and faced her. When she saw who it was her heart stood still; then in one brief moment the face of the universe had changed for her for ever. "Lord Watergate!" "I said I would come again. I have come in spite of you. You will not tell me that I come too soon, or in vain?" "You must not think that I did not value what you offered me," she said simply, though her voice shook; "that I did not think myself deeply honoured. But I was afraid--I have suffered very much." "And I.... Oh, Gertrude, my poor child, and I have left you all this time." For the light, flickering upwards, had shown him her weary, haggard face; had shown him also the pathetic look of her eyes as they yearned towards him in entreaty, in reliance,--in love. He had taken her in his arms, without explanation or apology, holding her to his breast as one holds a tired child. And she, looking up into his face, into the lucid depths of his eyes, felt all that was mean and petty and bitter in life fade away into nothingness; while all that was good and great and beautiful gathered new meaning and became the sole realities. [Illustration: Decoration] [Illustration: Decoration] EPILOGUE. There is little more to tell of the people who have figured in this story. Fanny continues to flourish at Notting Hill, the absence of children being the one drop in her cup and that of her husband. "But, perhaps," as Lucy privately remarks, "it is as well; for I don't think the Marshes would have understood how to bring up a child." For Lucy, in common with all young matrons of the day, has decided views on matters concerned with the mental, moral, and physical culture of the young. Unlike many thinkers, she does not hesitate to put her theories into practice, and the two small occupants of her nursery bear witness to excellent training. The photography, however, has not been crowded out by domestic duties; and no infant with pretensions to fashion omits to present itself before Mrs. Jermyn's lens. Lucy has succumbed to the modern practice of specialising, and only the other day carried off a medal for photographs of young children from an industrial exhibition. Her husband is no less successful in his own line. Having permanently abandoned the paint-brush for the needle, he bids fair to take a high place among the black and white artists of the day.