At my Grandmother's funeral Lord Tawborough had said: "Miss Traies, if ever you need any advice or service of any kind, write and let me know, will you? It is the only kindness I would presume to ask." On the morrow of Christmas Night I thought often—only—of these words. I did not write. Something told me that I had no need to.

The whole of that wintry morrow I was alone in the cold house. Even for Sister Briggs it was Boxing-Day: I had told her to take advantage of a day that even for oilmen (and Christians) should be a holiday, and to stay at home with her husband, as I could very well fend for myself.

I waited. It was foolish, impossible, one more Maryish notion of magic, madness, moonshine. It was possible, probable, inevitable, immediate.

The bell rang; with clamant heart and hurrying feet I sped to the door.

There were preliminary embarrassments and explanations. Trivial matters, to which we both gave grateful over-measure of zeal and zest, filled the awkwardest first moments, tided them capably over. "The snow on your coat: I must dry it"—"May the coachman come in and wait? The weather is bad"—"Certainly, there is the kitchen fire: for coat and coachman too"—"Thank you"—"I will get you a cup of tea."

We did not look at each other. In the dining-room we continued to speak of trifles, pouncing with eager dexterity and emulous speed upon any sudden silence that showed its head. Covertly once or twice I dared to look at the well-remembered face: fed swiftly on the manliness, the gentleness; the proud grey hair, the noble forehead, the charitable eyes; the mouth. My heart beat tempestuously.

Then God, in His Goodness, performed a miracle within me.

The mystical delight seized me. As on Jordan morning, I knew I should reach the Rapture. All love was one, and the Stranger was my Robbie. His face was the face of my visions, the face I had called Robbie's, that was not Robbie's. I knew that all the torrential affection which in dream and diary I had poured forth upon my vision, had been for my Love who stood before me now. The magical moment for which I had been born was at last upon me—oh, hope too hard to bear—but he must speak the word. He alone could complete the miracle, fulfil the hope, carry love's banners to their ultimate victory in my heart.

The silences grew longer and more shameless. My heart throbbed, my body trembled, my spirit was faint with expectation. He got up from his chair and began pacing up and down the room, talking of something, talking of nothing, moistening his parched lips, seeking through moments of unbearable longing for the words that would not come.

At this moment of time, which is present in my heart more clearly than any other of the memorable moments I have tried to describe in this record of twenty-two years, I was sitting on the old horsehair Chesterfield couch against the window; around me were the familiar objects of this chiefly familiar room—Aunt Jael's traditional chair, and my Grandmother's; the faded rosewood piano, the ancient chiffoniÈr, the odour of my childhood, the taste of religion and many meals, the all-pervading gloom. God was everywhere around me, the God of my childhood, the God of Beatings.

He stopped in his pacing up and down. I knew that his heart had stopped. His voice was husky, faint with passion and hope and fear.

"Miss Traies, may I ask you a question?"

I could not look up. My heart was near breaking point. I could not speak. Perhaps I nodded.

"Will you—promise me this? That if the answer to the question is 'No,' you will forgive me for having asked it, and like and respect me not less well than now?"

This longer sentence came a little more easily: words gave courage to each other. The first question had been harder; though the hardest was yet to come.

"What-is-the-question?" I still looked downwards. My voice was as husky as his, my heart as hungry.

"You know it."

"What-is-the-question?" repeated obstinately, mechanically, and because—for one-millionth part—I was not sure. I knew the question, my heart had answered it already; but I was a woman, and my mouth could not speak for my heart till the man had achieved his task—found his mouth courage to speak for his heart. I knew, my heart knew; but my brain waited for the serene absolute certainty which his words alone could give. To complete the miracle this word was needed.

"What-is-the-question?" I repeated mechanically.

His heart stopped again for the last effort, the ultimate moment of life. "Will you—once—one time only—before you go abroad again—before I am old—one single time—" (how fondly each poor broken conciliatory qualification seemed to ease his task, break his amorous fall, make easier my way to the answer his soul sought)—"kiss me?"

A spasm of spiritual joy went through me from head to foot. His soul was mine, and mine was his: we were one soul, one double-soul inhabiting each body.

The winter was past, the rain was over and gone.

"Yes," I whispered. My voice was unsure, my eyes were filled with tears of happiness, my heart was fondling the two flawless words with which he had transformed me.

More bravely, easily, surely: "When?"

"Soon."

"Very soon?"

"Now."

He came swiftly to me, his arms were round me, our mouths were together in a tender infinite embrace. My soul and body were singing. Love, garlanded with lilies, marched with God's paradisal banner of Perfect Happiness through all my heart.

He was kneeling by my side. His head was against my breast. I was kissing his hair, brushing my lips across his eyes.

After a very long while I spoke. My voice fell strangely and softly upon my own ears. My new heart had fashioned me a new voice worthy to do its bidding.

"Oh my dear, unhappiness is gone for ever. Now I am full of joy. You are near, you are completely in understanding. Look me in the eyes, dear; tell me it is not a dream."

"Mary, it is a dream. Today I have passed out of a land of unreality into one of wonderful dreams. Now I am part of another, my soul is part of hers, and can never be torn away. Time cannot do it, and what is more powerful than time?"

"Eternity," I said.

And I found as I uttered that word, that for the first time it held no terror.