He knew her
character would stand the test of any trial, and it had done so. Horror
had struck her, but had not overwhelmed her. She had cried out in her
agony, but she had not been swept out into chaos. She had no weak
passions and no futilities. But as he turned away now, it was with the
sharp conviction that he had dealt a blow from which the girl would
recover, but would never be the same again. She was rich "beyond the
dreams of avarice," but that would not console her. She had resources
within herself, had what would keep her steady. Her real power and
force, her real hope, were in her regnant soul which was not to be
cajoled by life's subterfuges. Her lips opened now, as though she would
say something, but nothing came from them. She only shook her head
sadly, as if to say: "You understand. Go, and when you come again, it
will be for us to part in peace--at least in peace."
Out in the garden he found her mother. After the first agitated
greeting-agitated on her part, he said: "The story has been told, and she
is now reading--"
He told her the story of the manuscript, and added that Sheila had
carried herself with courage.
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