her, with a glad rush of acquiescent joy, that all his life, the man,
though blinded by illusion, had been true to her whom he had left; and
that, instead of being poor, she was very rich. It was from that moment
that Dilly began to understand that the soul does not altogether weld
its own bonds, but that they lie in the secret core of things, as the
planet rushes on its appointed way.

There was Annette Joyce, who married a Stackpole, and, to the disgust of
her kin, clung to him through one debauch after another, until the world
found out that Annette "couldn't have much sense of decency herself, or
she wouldn't put up with such things." But on this one night Dilly found
out that Annette's life had been a continual laying hold of Eternal
Being, not for herself, but for the creature she loved; that she had
shown the insolence and audacity of a thousand spirits in one, besieging
high heaven and crying in the ear of God: "I demand of Thee this soul
that Thou hast made." And somehow Dilly knew now that she was of those
who overcome.

So the line stretched on, until she was aware of souls of which she had
never heard; and she knew that, faulty as their deeds might be, they had
striven, and the strife was not in vain. She felt herself to be one drop
in a mighty river, flowing into the water which is the sum of life; and
she was content to be absorbed in that great stream. There was human
comfort in the moment, too; for all about her were those whom she had
seen with her bodily eyes, and their presence brought an infinite cheer
and rest. Dilly felt the safety of the universe; she smiled lovingly
over the preciousness of all its homely ways. She thought of the
twilights when she had sat on the doorstone, eating huckleberries and
milk, and seeing the sun drop down the west; she remembered one night
when her little cat came home, after it had been lost, and felt the warm
touch of its fur against her hand. She saw how the great chain of things
is held by such slender links, and how there is nothing that is not most
sacred and most good. The hum of summer life outside the window seemed
to her the life in her own veins, and she knew that nothing dwells apart
from anything else, and that, whether we wot of it or not, we are of one
blood.

The night went on to that solemn hush that comes before the dawn. Dilly
felt the presence of the day, and what it would demand of her; but now
she did not fear. For Jethro, too, had been with her