She stood there on the pavement, strangely, almost absurdly, free and light of spirit. She knew neither whither she should turn nor what she should do, yet the fears which had haunted her for a whole day and night had vanished. The sky was blazing blue overhead; the opposite side of the street was all in sun; she hailed the joyous brightness of the day with a kind of answering joy. She seemed to be in the secret of the universe. A nursery-maid came along, pushing a baby in a perambulator. She stooped and greeted the child, and talked pretty nonsense to it with a fervor which left the young woman staring. Nurse and child went their way, and Nora lingered, looking up and down the empty street. Suddenly a gentleman turned into it from the cross-street above. He was walking fast; he had his hat in his hand, and with his other hand he was passing his handkerchief over his forehead. As she stood and watched him draw near, down the bright vista of the street, there came upon her a singular and altogether nameless sensation, strangely similar to the one she had felt a couple of years before, when a physician had given her a dose of ether. The gentleman, she perceived, was Roger; but the short interval of space and time which separated them seemed to expand into a throbbing immensity and eternity. She seemed to be watching him for an age, and, as she did so, to be floating through the whole circle of emotion and the full realization of being. Yes, she was in the secret of the universe, and the secret of the universe was, that Roger was the only man in it who had a heart. Suddenly she felt a palpable grasp. Roger stood before her, and had taken her hand. For a moment he said nothing; but the touch of his hand spoke loud. They stood for an instant scanning the change in each other’s faces. “Where are you going?” said Roger, at last, imploringly. Nora read silently in his haggard eyes the whole record of his suffering. It is a strange truth that this seemed the most beautiful thing she had ever looked upon; the sight of it was delicious. It seemed to whisper louder and louder that secret about Roger’s heart. Nora collected herself as solemnly as one on a deathbed making a will; but Roger was still in miserable doubt and dread. “I have followed you,” he said, “in spite of that request in your letter.” “Have you got my letter?” Nora asked. “It was the only thing you had left me,” he said, and drew it forth, creased and crumpled. She took it from him and thrust it into the pocket of her dress, never taking her eyes off his own. “Don’t try and forget that I wrote it,” she said. “I want you to see me burn it up, and to remember that.” “What does it mean, Nora?” he asked, in hardly audible tones. “It means that I am a wiser girl to-day than _then_. I know myself better, I know you better. O Roger!” she cried, “it means everything!”