Once she had stood there, thrilled to her inmost soul. Again she had waited there, white to the lips with pain. Now she had outgrown it, had learned peace, and the long years slipped away, each with its own burden.
The wood was exquisitely still. A nut dropped now and then, and a belated bird called to its mate. The swift patter of fairy feet echoed and re-echoed through the long aisles. The air was crystalline, yet full of colour, and the gold and crimson leaves floated idly back and forth. It needed only a passing wind, at the right moment and from the right place, to make a rainbow then and there.
She went farther into the wood, with a sense of friendliness for the well-known way. Just at the turn of the path, she stopped, amazed. At their trysting-place, where the wide rock was laid at the foot of the oak, someone had reared an altar and blazoned a cross upon the stone.
Her eyes filled, for she knew who had made it, that symbol of sacrifice. Weather-worn and moss-grown, it must have stood for the whole of the five and twenty years. There was no word, no inscription—only the cross, but for her it was enough.
“To kiss the cross, Sweetheart, to kiss the cross!” The last measures of the song reverberated through her memory, as Iris had sung it in her deep contralto, so long ago.
Sobbing, she knelt, with her lips against the symbol, then suddenly started to her feet, for there was a step upon the path.
For a blinding instant, they faced each other, unbelieving, then the Master opened his arms.
“Beloved,” he breathed, “is it thou?”