Monica gained an entrance. Sidney was sitting by the window, which was open, her Bible was upon the broad ledge before her, and she was gazing out, the tears fast dropping down her cheeks as she did so. She clung to Monica when she kissed her.
"Oh, Monica, what a wonderful day this is to him! It has seemed a year to me, but think of what he must be seeing and hearing! Come and sit down. I don't mind you, but I cannot go downstairs and eat food. Could you?"
Monica was tongue-tied. There was a radiance in Sidney's face which was like a rainbow shining through rain.
"I came up here stunned," she went on softly, "and then I took my Bible. Do you know the forty-sixth Psalm, Monnie? 'God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.' That seemed to steady me. And when I came to the verse: 'God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved: God shall help her, and that right early,' I took the words and applied them to myself. You can do that with the Bible. Words seem to give messages in so many different ways. And as I prayed about it I got my answer. God has been raising my heart up above the world altogether to where dad is. What does it matter about me? He is with mother. I found his 'Daily Light' open on his dressing table. He always read it, and the first verses he read this morning were these:
"'His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me;
Underneath are the everlasting arms.'
"And the last verse:
"'They shall never perish.'
"He went out straight into the garden after reading those verses, and was gathered into God's arms to be comforted. He wanted it, poor dad! It was a difficult homecoming last night. Let me talk, Monnie; it eases me. I had a miserable hour to-day, thinking of dad's great sadness. Uncle Ted said he was pacing his room half the night. If only I had known! If only I had been with him! He was perplexed and troubled about the future. People think that it is only women who cling to old associations, but men do—even more. Father did! He could not make up his mind to leave his books, his pictures, the old bits of furniture that his father and mother had used. It was torture to him, and I suppose when he found his guns torn up, rooted out of their place and thrown in a ditch, that was the finishing stroke. I won't be bitter; I won't think of the door through which he escaped. It does not matter about the door, does it? It may be a narrow one, and an unpleasant one to enter, but it is so quickly passed, and the other side is so glorious!"
She paused, and again her eyes sought the blue sky outside her window.
Monica was silent. What could she say? She put her hand out and took Sidney's in it. They sat for some minutes in silence. Then Sidney turned to her, and the light still shone in her eyes.