And then in a flash, sudden as lightning, triumphant as the cry of a trumpet, all her bravery and fine courage came back to her, and she seemed to herself to take the gray line that lay across her pastures and snap it in two. She refused to acquiesce in age and the coming disabilities of it; she would not suffer it to enter her soul. Courage and strength were hers. Hugh was hers; motherhood was drawing daily nearer. She had to meet life with a heart carried high, like a light at a masthead—to meet it with laughter and welcome and by maintaining the confidence of youth and its swift choice to continue to know the romance of living. And she got up, pushing her chair quickly back, forgetful of the sleeper next door. Then she remembered again, and went back on tiptoe across her room to the bed.
But the noise had aroused him, and he sat up, looking at her with dazed, sleep-laden eyes.
“Why, what’s the matter?” he said. “Is it morning? Why are you up so early?”
Edith lay down again.
“Darling, I am so sorry I awoke you,” she said. “I had the nightmare, and got up to convince myself it wasn’t real.”
Hugh had already closed his eyes again.
“And it wasn’t, I hope?” he said.
“No; quite unreal.”