'Wait a moment, Ursula,' whispered Giles. 'Do you hear that ballad-singer in the square?' A voice clear and shrill seemed to float to us in the darkness: 'Sweet and low, sweet and low, wind of the western sea,' she sang. The waves seemed to splash in harmonious accompaniment; the lights were flickering, the carriages rolling under the faint starlight. I saw Giles's face—as I loved to see it—grave, thoughtful, and satisfied.
'After all,' he said, as though answering some inward questioning, 'a man cannot know what his life will bring him. Do you remember what Robert Browning says:
"What o' the way to the end?—The end crowns all."
The end crowns all to me, Ursula.' And Giles's deep-set eyes gave me no doubt of his meaning.