l; but know always that one man at least has seen heaven in your
eyes." Again he held her to him, his whole life seeming to flow out
upon his thoughts and to envelop her, then his arms relaxed and very
soberly he took, first one of her hands, and then the other, kissing
each in turn.

"Maxine!"

"Ned!" The word faltered on her lips.

"That's right!" he whispered. "I only wanted you to say my name.
Good-bye now! Don't fret for me! After all, everything is as it should
be."

She stood before him, the conqueror. All preconceptions had been
scattered; she had not even won her laurels, they had been placed at her
feet; and all the pomp and circumstance she could summon to her
triumphing was a white face, a drooping head, and speechless lips.

"Good-bye, Maxine!" The words cried for response, and by a supreme
effort she summoned her voice from some far region.

"Good-bye!"

He did not kiss her hand again, but bending his head, he solemnly kissed
his own ring, lying cold upon her finger.

CHAPTER XLI

All was finished. Mystery was at an end. The pilgrim's staff had been
placed in Maxine's hand, her feet set toward the great white road. She
leaned back against the window of the _salon_ and her mental eyes
scanned that road--the coveted road of freedom, the way of splendid
isolation--and in a vague, dumb fashion she wondered why the whiteness
that had gleamed like snow in the distance should take on the hue of
dust seen at close quarters. She wondered why she should feel so
absolutely numbed--why life, with its exuberances of joy and sorrow,
should suddenly have receded from her as a tide recedes.

There had been no battle; hers was a bloodless victory. Fate had been
exquisitely kind, as is Fate's way when she would be ironical. Maxine
could call up no cause for grief or for resentment, no cause even for
remorse. She had confessed herself; she had been shriven and blessed,
and bade to go her way!

Passing in review these phantom speculations, her eyes suddenly refused
the vision of the mythical white road, stretching away in
brain-sickening length, and her physical sight caught at the familiar
picture revealed by the balcony--the thrice-known, thrice-loved
shrubbery, where already the glossy holly leaves were stirring under
September's fingers, whispering one to the other of fine cold autumn
hours when gales would sweep the heights, bringing death to their
frailer brethren, while they themselves nestled sn