So very cautiously, and not without a good deal of pain in the knee, I limped back to my old position.
The hour following seemed very long, very dreary. I do not know that I have ever felt more weighed down and altogether sorrowful. I was anxious about Thyrza: and my own future seemed so grey and wearisome. The letter from Miss Millington pressed upon me like lead. Could I in heart and soul forgive her the wrong she had wilfully done to me?
At the end of an hour, or something like an hour, I looked up,—I had been gazing on the ground,—and the sunbeams were shining like reddish gold all along the broad mountain brow, with wonderful beauty. It seemed to me the gleam of a smile from heaven. The mountain's frown was lost in that smile.
"I shall find brightness enough in another world, if not in this," I found myself saying aloud. "One only has to wait a little while."
The deadly stillness of the Pass was so strange: no answer coming. And then a soft voice seemed to say, "Miss Millington?"—as if asking a question.
"Yes!" I said; and there was a sudden radiance of joy in my heart, resembling the outside glow. "Yes, I do forgive! I will write and tell her so."
The shining radiance deepened, without and within. I had an extraordinary sense of rest,—of willingness to receive whatever might be sent me. No thought of fear mingled with the willingness, though I whispered instinctively, "Does this mean some fresh great trouble?" If it did, I was willing still. The Presence of my Master would make all things light.
I almost expected another utterance of the soft voice, speaking to my heart from without or within—which, I do not know. I waited—listening.
And no voice spoke. But my eyes fell upon a figure, descending the great green slope, exactly in front.
"Thyrza!" I cried.