Her pale face was even paler than usual, and her lips
trembled. She did not speak, but she made the sign of the Cross.
And by that . . . I knew.
"Out of the depths I cry unto thee, O Lord, Lord, hear my cry."
THE AUTHOR TO THE READER
I saw him off at Tilbury when he left England on his last Expedition.
Already he was his own man once more. After the blinding, stunning
effect of the great event there had been a quick recuperation. His
spirit had risen to a wonderful strength and even a certain
cheerfulness.
I did not find it hard to read the secret of this change. It was not
merely that Time, the great assuager, had begun to do its work with him,
but that he had brought himself to accept without qualm or question Mary
O'Neill's beautiful belief (the old, old belief) in the immortality of
personal love, and was firmly convinced that, freed from the
imprisonment of the flesh, she was with him every day and hour, and that
as long as he lived she always would be.
There was nothing vague, nothing fantastic, nothing mawkish, nothing
unmanly about this belief, but only the simple faith of a steady soul
and a perfectly clear brain.
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