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for five years was a person brought near. Hatred carved its dark conceptions, its dark interpretations, and then the hollowed form turned round and revealed itself in relief; the same, yet almost unrecognizable. Elle est ben trop noire; the Madonna eyes of reprobation; against what a background did she now see her old distastes! The strength of Hester’s arm was round her shoulders, snatching her from death; its warmth was beneath her hand, sustaining her. Hester might still be strange to her; but she was near.

It was a grey, fresh day. Yesterday had still been almost summer; to-day was almost winter and as Monica approached The Crofts she saw that the hedgerow trees, in the climbing lane behind it, were nearly leafless. But a savour of sweetness was in the air and on the cherry-tree at the gate a robin was singing its silvery song, symbolic to her ear of all she had come to rescue; childhood under a secure heaven; old age hand in hand beside the hearth; the promise of spring and winter’s harvesting of unity; all the sacred platitudes.

She went quietly up the path, so quietly that the robin did not cease its singing, and opened the door and went in. Everything was still in the little house though, in the distance, she could just hear the