appearance of
Martin, and brought to bloom in the silent hours of wakeful nights when
the thought of all the diffidence and deference of Martin won her
gratitude and respect. In the strong, frank and rather harsh light that
had been flung on her way of life it was Martin, Martin, who stood out
clean and tender and lenient--Martin, who had developed from the Paul
of the woods, the boy chum, her fellow adventurer, her sexless Knight,
into the man who had won her love and whom she needed and ached for and
longed to find. She had been brought up with a round turn, found
herself face to face with the truth of things and, deaf to the
incessant jangle of the Merry-go-round, had discovered that Martin was
not merely the gallant and obliging boy, playing a game, trifling on
the edge of reality, but the man with the other blade of the penknife
who, like his prototype in the fairy tale, had the ordained right to
her as she had to him.

And as she went on through the silvered trees, with a sort of dignity,
her chin high, her eyes sparkling like stars, her mouth soft and sweet,
it was to see the roof under which she would begin her married life
again, rightly, honestly and as a woman, crossing the bridge between
thoughtlessness and responsibility with a true sense of its
meaning,--not in cold blood.

She came out to the road, dry and white, bordered by coarse grasses and
wild flowers all asleep, with their petals closed over their eyes,
opened the gate that led into the long avenue, splashed through the
patches of moonlight on the driveway and came finally to the door under
which she had stood that other time with dancing eyes and racing blood
and "Who cares?" ringing in her head.

There was no light to be seen in any of the front windows. The house
seemed to be fast asleep. How warm and friendly and unpretentious it
looked, and there was all about it the same sense of strength that
there was about Martin. In which window had they stood in the dark,
looking out on to a world that they were going to brave together? Was
it in the right wing? Yes. She remembered that tree whose branches
turned over like a waterfall and something that looked like a little
old woman in a shawl bending to pick up sticks but which was an old
stump covered with creepers.

She went round, her heart fluttering like a bird, all her femininity
stirred at the thought of what this house must mean and shelter--and
drew up short with a quick intake of breath.