He turns toward the house, stooping over the sweet-williams to gather the accustomed bunch. He goes into the cottage with them in his hand, the same half-smile on his lips.
In the doorway he pauses. He stands gazing at the figure in the chair by the window. What has come over him? He brushes his hand slowly across his eyes. Helen sits by the window. Where is the terrible face that has haunted him all these months?
He goes nearer. She is asleep. The setting sun burnishes the gold of her hair until it is like the aureole of a saint. It frames the face not of the woman who has sat in silence so long, but of the woman who loved him in his youth. The same sweet mouth with its tender smile. The wife of his youth, of his love, of his happiness, of his poverty, of his eminence, of—
He is at her side. The sun has lowered a little, and the delicate flush on her face is going with it.
He bends near her till his lips touch her tender ones that seem to invite.
He leans heavily against her chair. He lays the sweet-williams gently in her dead hands, as the sun sets behind the hill.
Juggernaut has passed over his soul and Helen's.