so large, so dim, unveiling themselves only in flashes, and moving away again into the darkness, engulfed by it. They had walked by this time to the street in which Mary lived, and being engrossed by what they said and partly saw, passed her staircase without looking up. At this time of night there was no traffic and scarcely any foot-passengers, so that they could pace slowly without interruption, arm-in-arm, raising their hands now and then to draw something upon the vast blue curtain of the sky.
They brought themselves by these means, acting on a mood of profound happiness, to a state of clear-sightedness where the liting of a finger had effect, and one word spoke more than a sentence. They lapsed gently into silence, travelling the dark paths of thought side by side towards something discerned in the distance which gradually possessed them both. They were victors, masters of life, but at the same time absorbed in the flame, giving their life to increase its brightness, to testify to their faith. Thus they had walked, perhaps, twice or three times up and down Mary Datchet’s street before the recurrence of a light burning behind a thin, yellow blind caused them to stop without exactly knowing why they did so. It burnt itself into their minds.
“That is the light in Mary’s room,” said Ralph. “She must be at home.” He pointed across the street. Katharine’s eyes rested there too.
“Is she alone, working at this time of night? What is she working at?” she wondered. “Why should we interrupt her?” she asked passionately. “What have we got to give her? She’s happy too,” she added. “She has her work.” Her voice shook slightly, and the light swam like an ocean of gold behind her tears.
“You don’t want me to go to her?” Ralph asked.
“Go, if you like; tell her what you like,” she replied.
He crossed the road immediately, and went up the steps into Mary’s house. Katharine stood where he
