She grew calm quite suddenly, and went back to the seat under the yews, like a woman who recovers gradually her sanity of soul. She was silent awhile, looking into the long grass with wide, luminous eyes that seemed to search and compass the future. It was her ordeal of fire; like the true woman she was, she emerged scathless. “Gabriel,” she said, presently. He came two steps nearer, looking in her face as one who seeks inspiration. “I understand you now. It was all so sudden and terrible; forgive me for seeming desperate.” “Joan!” She spoke very quietly, still looking at the grass. “Promise me one thing,” she said. “Tell it to me.” “You will not grieve for my sake.” He took a deep breath and hung his head. “Promise me this,” she said, speaking more quickly—“ah! promise it me, for I would not change the past—no, not for my hope of heaven. It has taught me much—ah! how much you can never know. It has taught me the glory of being a woman. I can only bless you for it, my dearest, my dear—” He stood before her, awed by a wonder that solemnized his whole being. He would have worshipped her save that his own shame forbade him. Only those who have beheld it can declare, the incomprehensible heroism of the love of a good woman. “You shame me greatly,” was all he said. Joan rose up suddenly and came very near to him. “Gabriel, I honor you.” “Honor me!” “Have you not put your own heart under your feet?” “And yours!” Joy had kindled on her face. She was happy—nay, exultant in her rapture of self-negation. “Have I not sworn to you,” she said, “that I would not have had it otherwise? This has been my great awakening. Can you not understand, dear, that it is even something to live for a memory? I am content to be brave, not only for our sake, but for hers.” “The woman I married?” “Your wife; she must never know of this; I have always remembered her honor. And I have held your heart, Gabriel; have I not?” “Who else?” “We can triumph over the world, even by our renunciation.” A gradual melancholy descended upon the hearts of both. Over the trees the sky was a golden canopy; the grass stood a deep mist about the foxgloves’ purple towers. There were no tears in the eyes of heaven. Only the sun came streaming through the trees. “It is better thus,” said the miser’s daughter, “for there will be no shadow between us—no reproach.” “If I am ever a man,” he answered her, “you will have re-created me.” “I will trust in your future.” “Trust me, that I may trust myself.” She came even nearer and stood very close to him, looking in his face. Her lips were parted, and there was such light in her eyes that she looked like one transfigured. “Kiss me, Gabriel, but once.” “Joan!” “But once, the only time, and forever.” “I should but wound you deeper.” “No, no, on my lips—that I may remember it. Is it so great a thing to ask?”