"Yes," she whispered, breathing hard and quick. "I remember now: you taught me music, and—and you taught me—love, but you told me not to let them kill my ideal; and, oh! I haven't! I haven't!"
She shut her eyes and reeled forward. She did not faint, but for a moment her senses refused to accept impressions.
Travers knelt and caught her to him as she fell. Her dear head was upon his knee once more, and he pressed his lips to the wonderful hair from which the little hat had fallen. Then her eyes opened, but her lips trembled.
"You—came all the way from the Place Beyond the Winds, little girl, to show me my ideal again; to strike your blow—for women." Travers was whispering.
"Your ideal? But no, dear love. Your ideal is back there—in the Garden."
"And yours? I—I do not understand, Priscilla. I am still dazed. What Garden?"
"The big world, my dear man; your world."
"My blessed child! Do not look like that. Do you think I'm going back without you? I've been looking for—Priscilla Glynn—fool that I was! And you were—great heavens! You were the little nurse in St. Albans!"
"Yes—and you and I—stood by Jerry-Jo McAlpin's bed—you and I! That was his secret."
"Priscilla, what do you mean?"