When Christobel recovered consciousness and opened her eyes, she found herself in bed, in her own room, at home. Martha bent over her. The morning light entered dimly, through closed curtains. In dumb anguish of mind, she looked up into Martha's grim old face. "Tell me where you have laid him," she said, "and I will take him away." Martha snorted. "I've laid your tea-tray on the table beside your bed, Miss," she said; "and when you 'ave finished with it, _I_ will take it away." Whereupon, Martha lumbered to the large bow-window, drew back all the curtains with a vigorous clatter of brass rings, and let in a blaze of morning sunshine. Christobel lay quite still, trying to collect her thoughts. One of her pillows was clasped tightly in her arms. She lifted her left hand, and looked at it. No ring encircled the third finger. "Martha," she called, softly. Martha loomed large at the side of the bed. "What is to-day?" "Wednesday, Miss," replied Martha, too much surprised to be contemptuous. "Martha--where is Mr. Chelsea?" "Lord only knows," said Martha, tragically. "Martha--is he--living?" "Living?" repeated Martha, deliberately. Then she smiled, her crooked smile. "Living don't express it, Miss Christobel. Lively's more like it, when Mr. Guy is concerned. And I reckon, wherever 'e is, e's makin' things lively somewhere for somebody. You don't look quite the thing this morning, Miss. Sit up and take your tea." She sat up, loosing the pillow out of her arms--the pillow which had been, first her Little Boy Blue, as she drew him to her in the darkness; then the dead body of Guy Chelsea, as she lifted it on the breakwater. She took her tea from Martha's hand, and drank it quickly. She wanted Martha to go. It was Wednesday! Then the Boy had left her only the day before yesterday. His telegram had come last night. The Professor's proposal had not yet reached her. Martha lifted the tray and departed. Then Christobel Charteris rose, and stood at her open window, in the morning sunlight. She looked out upon the mulberry-tree and the long vista of soft turf; in the dim distance, the postern gate in the old red wall--his paradise, and hers. She lifted her beautiful arms above her head. The loose sleeves of her nightdress fell away, baring them to the elbows. She might have stood, in her noble development of face and form, for a splendid statue of hope and praise. "Ah, dear God!" she breathed, "is it indeed true? Is it possible? Is my Boy alive? And am I free--free to be his alone? Am I free to give him all he wants, free to be all he needs?" She stood long at the window motionless, realizing the mental adjustment which had come to her during the strenuous hours of the night.