The smile sent swift pain through her heart. She made a step or two, and fell sobbing on his breast.
“O Belovedest, I am sorry! You have guessed right. Forgive me!”
He caressed the bowed head tenderly for an instant, then releasing himself, he clapped his hand on Herold's shoulder and shook it with rough affection.
“I 'm going to bed,” said he. He moved to the door. There he paused to nod a good night; but at sight of them both looking sadly at him he walked back a couple of paces.
“Don't worry about me. I'm at peace with myself for the first time for years. There 's lots of happiness in the world left.” He smiled again. “Enough for the three of us—and for Unity.”
He left them, and went to bed in the room which Stellamaris had furnished for him long ago, and fell into the sleep of the man who has found rest at last in the calm and certain knowledge of spiritual things. Unity had not died in vain. And Stellamaris, sitting once more by Herold's side in the wide bay of the window, and talking with him in a hushed voice of the wondrous things that had come to pass, knew that John Risca had spoken a great truth. It had been God's will that so should the terrible splendour of the world be made manifest.
Herold asked for the million-billionth time in the history of mankind:
“When did you first find that you loved me?”
She replied, perhaps more truly than most maidens:
“There was never a time when I did n't love you. I mean—I don't quite know what I mean,” she said confusedly. “You see, I 've lived a strange life, dear,” she went on. “You seem to have been a part of me ever since I can remember what is worth remembering. You have always understood things that went on inside me almost before I could tell them to you. I always wanted you to explain foolishness that I could n't speak of to any one else.”