do, but I can see that this is beautiful. Of course you
don't know what it means to me. It has simply changed the world." She
waved her hand again. "They never got by, before. I always knew that
line was line, and color was color, wherever or whoever. But my eyes
went back on me. My father would have despised me. He wouldn't have
preferred Habakkuk, but he would have done Habakkuk justice from the
beginning. Yes, it makes a great deal of difference to me to see it
once, fair and clear. Why"--she drew herself up as well as she could, so
firmly held--"it is a very lovely place. I should tire of it some time,
but I shall not tire of it soon. For a little while, I shall be up to
it. And I know that no one thinks it will be long."

Just then, Withrow's absurd fate caught him. Breathless, more
passionately interested than he had ever been in his life, he sneezed.
He had just time, while the two women were turning, to wonder if he had
ruined it all--if she would faint, or shriek, or relapse into apathy.

She did none of these things. She faced him and flushed, standing
unsteadily. "How long have you been cheating me?" she asked coldly. But
she held out her hand before she went upstairs with the nurse's arm
still round her.

Later he caught at Miss Willis excitedly. "Is she better? Is she worse?
Is she well? Or is she going to die?"

"She's shaken. She must rest. But she's got the hepaticas in water
beside her bed. And she told me to pull the shade up so that she could
look out. She has a touch of temperature--but she often has that. The
exertion and the shock would be enough to give it to her. I found her
leaning against the door-jamb. I hadn't a chance to tell her you were
here. I can tell you later whether you'd better go or stay."

"I'm going to stay. It's you who are going."

"You needn't telegraph just yet," the nurse replied dryly. She looked
another woman from the nervous, sobbing creature on the chopping-block.

The end was that Miss Willis stayed and Arnold Withrow went. Late that
afternoon he left Kathleen Somers staring passionately at the sunset. It
was not his moment, and he had the grace to know it. But he had not had
to tell her that the view was beastly; and, much as he loved her, I
think that was a relief to him.

None of us will ever know the whole of Kathleen Somers's miracle, of
course. I believe she told as much of it as she could when she said that
she had lain thinking of the outlines of the mou