She knew now who she was, Philippa de Châtillon. She knew how her mother had died; and her father.
As yet, the wonderment of it all had not been too deeply embittered by the tragedy. It was still only wonder, and a striving to realize—a dream, strange, terrible, beautiful by turns; but still a dream to her.
Something far more real, more vivid, more vital, possessed her. She knew it; felt it always now. The consciousness of it shared with her the veiled emotions which the solving of her life's mystery evoked.
As she stood there in the brilliant starlight, both arms wound around one of his in the old, unconscious way, Halkett came into the garden, walking swiftly:
"The car is here. Don't come to the door. I had rather say good-by and God bless you here in this garden—where I first knew you, Philippa—where you and I became friends, Warner.... So—good-by. If I come out of it, I'll come to you—to both of you, I hope."
"Yes," said Philippa calmly.
He took her hand, held it, looked at Warner, and took the hand he offered.
"Good-by!"
"Good-by!"
He turned and walked swiftly into the house. As he passed the stairway, he saw Sister Eila standing there as white as death.