She heard the rising passion in his voice. It was like a goad, pricking her to action. For a few seconds she lay passive, waiting as it were for strength. All her life she was to remember the strange calm of those waiting moments. She was as one ship-wrecked and in appalling danger, yet in some fashion aware of rescue drawing near.
And then quite suddenly deliverance came; she knew not how nor stayed to question whence. She realized only the presence of a power beyond her own, uplifting her, succouring her. She put away the arms that sought to hold her, and even as she did so, there came a sound beyond the dripping of the rain—the sound of a child’s voice singing a little tuneless song to itself out in the darkness.
Frances gasped and uttered a cry. “Is that you, child? Is that you?”
The song ceased. A child’s voice made reply. “Is that the pretty lady who gives me flowers?”
They could not see her, but she was close to them. She had entered the shed and stood before them.
“I dreamt I would find you here,” she said. “It was Daniel in the lions’ den at first, then it was you. Why are you in here?”
Frances was on her feet. The man behind her never stirred.
“I have lost my way, little darling,” she said. “How did you get here in the dark?”
“I don’t know the dark,” said the child. “What is dark?”
Frances groping, touched and held a small figure standing before her. “Can you take me back, Rosebud?” she said.