"Good-bye——"
But Anne stretched out her hand and drew Sigrid down to her and kissed her.
"Yours is the hardest part. I—judged—harshly. Forgive."
"There is no need—our ways have met in the end."
The door closed presently. It grew very still in the little hut. The voices and the clatter of hoofs faded in the distance. All other sounds sank into the deepening, growing call of the flood.
Anne lay still. Her eyes lingered on the shadowy furniture. Even now there was Wickie's old basket in the corner. Poor Tristram! She sighed faintly—wearily. Somehow now it was so much easier to understand—God was all-merciful.
It was growing dark. She tried to compose herself. The shadows were rising up all around her. She was not afraid. Owen would be there—he would be waiting for her—it would be just as it had always been—only more perfect.
She tried to fold her hands.
"Our Father which art——"
It was as though a great sea poured over her—engulfing her in its peace.