"I believe!" he insisted. "I believe _this_ is to be your work--the work I haven't stopped." And as she listened, there came to her, too, a faith in Ted's prophecy. Her gift would have its fruition in Eric--and perhaps in Eric's sons and his sons' sons. She was granted a vision of a torch passed on from one trustworthy hand to another throughout the years; and beholding that vision, she was aware that nothing she had suffered mattered at all. She could face the stars now with a heart at peace. She could watch the earth's miracles, feeling herself a part of them. From the earth sprang flowers; from her flesh had sprung her son--her son who had been born to carry on the torch. She had created beauty indeed--beauty that would outlive her life in her son's art. Even Peter's image was blurred for her as she beheld her supreme vision. And then she recalled Charlotte's words: "I sometimes question if those of us who catch a glimpse of a happiness perfect and transcendent ever experience the reality. I doubt, in fact, if any reality could stand unimpaired by that vision." Charlotte was mistaken. There were visions which became realities; this final vision of hers would become a reality--and it would be none the less perfect and transcendent for that. Sheila laid her hands on her husband's shoulders. "I'm glad that I've lived!" she said. And again, with a little sob, "Oh, my dear, I'm glad that I've lived!" THE END End of Project Gutenberg's The Torch Bearer, by Reina Melcher Marquis