"I won't write," Murdoch had said. "You shall not be troubled by prospects that might end in nothing. You will hear nothing from me till I come and tell you with my own lips that I have won or failed."
In the days of waiting Christian proved her strength. She would not let her belief be beaten or weighed down. She clung to it in spite of what she saw hour by hour in the face of the woman who was her companion.
"I have lived through it before."
It was not put into words, but she read it in her eyes and believed in spite of it.
He had been away two weeks, and he returned as his father had done, at night.
The women were sitting together in the little inner room. They were not talking or working, though each had work in her hands. It was Christian who heard him first. She threw down her work and stood up.
"He is here," she cried. "He is coming up the step."
She was out in the narrow entry and had thrown the door open before he had time to open it with his key.
The light fell upon his dark pale face and showed a strange excitement in it. He was disheveled and travel-worn, but his eyes were bright. His first words were enough.
"It is all right," he said, in an exultant voice. "It is a success. Where is my mother?"