But she had watched the stalwart figure pass along the white road past the bungalow with that mystic smile still on her lips, and a strange happiness had possessed her.
Light had somehow invaded the grayness which so long had shrouded her existence.
She asked herself no questions as to the future. She lived now in the moment. She knew herself once more beloved, and to every woman that is joy.
Happiness will not bear dissection and analysis. Eweretta attempted neither.
She had seen the light of dawn in the East, and she watched for the sun to rise.
She remembered that she was young.
The picture Dan had made of her in her ordinary white gown (he had asked for this particular gown because of the soft folds with which it clung to her slim figure), now hung in the dining-room.
Eweretta, standing alone before it, looked at her other self. She noted the deep, rich red of the rose pinned at the bosom, where two soft folds of muslin crossed each other—the only ornament. She noted how Dan had caught that blue shimmer in the black of her hair, where it slightly waved away from her temples.
She saw, too, that the face was different from the old Eweretta’s, it held something more which she could not define.
The difference was that the old, glad Eweretta had never suffered. The merry look was gone, and in its place was a marvellous sweetness.