bling sigh, put one of her hands on top of the other on
her breast and pushed, as though she were pushing her heart down. Then
presently the pressure of her hands relaxed, her head dropped down until
her chin touched her fingers, and a great flush that was like a charge
from something electric surged through her.

"Oh," she cried, "oh, is it you! Have you come!" It was a triumphant,
shy, thrilling greeting to something, something that she had been
waiting for, born for. The dark grew intenser, sweeter, warmer. She
lifted her arms and held them out yearningly toward the Tigmore hills,
half-leaning out the window, catching the rain on her eager young face,
in her shining hair, on her broad low breast. "I am so glad of it!" she
panted, in a singing whisper, "I am so glad----" A great sheet of
lightning unrolled across the Tigmore hills and held steadily
magnificent for a moment, revealing everything to everybody, so it
seemed to Sally Madeira. She crept into bed shaking, ecstatic, afraid.

Next morning she made her toilet away from the mirror as much as was
possible, not being quite ready to face her whole found self as yet. But
before she went downstairs she crossed to the window and looked out at
the tumbling Tigmore line, a kissing sigh on her lips.

When she reached the dining room she found that Madeira had not yet
come down, so she walked out into the garden, where she stood for a
little while by the vine-covered stump, her eyes closed, her little
straight nose in the air, the broad daylight beating down on her. Then
presently she opened her eyes determinedly. "Yes, I can stand it," she
said, as though she had been afraid that she couldn't, and looked
straight up into the rain of light over-head. "I can stand it, in the
daytime as in the dark, from now on forever."

In the air was an autumn mellowness that had not been there the day
before. It nipped, with a strong, winey flavour, as it went down. All
around her lay drifts of petals, rain-beaten roses, ragged lilies. The
storm had stolen the garden's glory. "To put it into my heart!" cried
the girl, in her all-conquering joy. "Oh, you Garden of Dreams, you!
See, my eyes are wide open, and this, _this_ is better than dreams!"

She went back to the house with her arms full of the very last roses.
"For now, I must go bring my father around," she said.

Madeira had had a bad night. He had not slept at all as far as he could
tell. For hours he had had to lie on his b