There was for once a wonderful content upon her face, the look that Ernie had often sought and never found there before. The strain had vanished. This girl possessed her soul in love and peace for the moment at least. Ernie was reluctant to disturb her, for she gave him the impression of one who prays. "The bell's going, Ruth," he said at last gently. She put down her work and dismounted from the sill in that swift business-like way of hers. There was a rhythm about her every movement that satisfied the deepest need of Ernie's soul. "What number?" she asked. "Seventy-seven." Her face clouded. It was the sodden Jew, clamant once more. "I'll go," said Ernie. It was no job of his, but go he did. And he was glad he had, for Soly surpassed himself. "You!" stertorously. "What good are you to me? Send that Spanish gypsy here! She's the one I want. I like 'em brown." Just outside the door Ernie met Céleste. "He wants you, Miss," he said, and admired the readiness of his lie. Then he walked thoughtfully back to Ruth, who had resumed her work. "It's all right," he said shyly. She lifted her face to him slowly, almost stealthily. Then there flashed a lovely light into her eyes. "Thank-you, Mr. Boots," she said. He advanced a step on her. "That ain't my name." She hid again in her work. "What is then?" she asked. "Ernie," he said. "Call me that." He was curiously peremptory, almost imperious. She did not answer him--threading her needle deliberately against the light. Suddenly doors flung wide, and his whole being leapt forth as from a furnace, caught her up, and rapt her in a living flame of love. She seemed to feel it beating about her, devouring her, and stirred as a tired bird stirs in its nest at night after a long flight. Ernie was trembling till it seemed to him that his heels rat-a-tatting on the floor must betray him. Then he went on his way. The transfiguring experience that comes perhaps once in a life-time to the pure in heart had come to him in full flood. A new life was his, sweeping away old land-marks, and bearing him he knew not whither. He drifted with that mighty tide, content to be borne along. He had been alive for twenty-five years, yet dead. Now he rose from the tomb, at this his astounding Ascension-tide. In a second he had been rapt up from the earth, had suffered miraculous conversion, and would never again see life as he had once seen it. It was curious, wonderful, and above all it revolutionized old values. The men and women he met in the passage looked different, especially the women. They were coarse, commonplace. Céleste passed him with a quip. What she said he didn't know, but he thought how opaque and material she was in such a spiritual world; and what a pity it was; and how sorry he was for her. Madame stopped him and gave him orders. He heard and carried them out.