Emily was an unfailing inspiration; by her side the nobler zeal of his youth renewed itself; in the light of her pure soul he saw the world as poetry and strove for that detachment of the intellect which in Emily was a gift of nature.
She, Emily--Emily Athel, as she joyed to write herself--moved in her new sphere like a spirit humbled by victory over fate.

It was a mild winter; the Surrey hills were tender against the brief daylight, and gardens breathed the freshness of evergreens.

When the sun trembled over the landscape for a short hour, Emily loved to stray as far as that hollow on the heath where she had sat with Wilfrid years ago, and heard him for the first time speak freely of his aims and his hopes.

That spot was sacred; as she stood there beneath the faint blue of the winter sky, all the exquisite sadness of life, the memory of those whom death had led to his kindly haven, the sorrows of new-born love, the dear heartache for woe passed into eternity, touched the deepest fountains of her nature and made dim her eyes.

She would not have had life other than it was given to her, for she had learned the secrets of infinite passion in the sunless valleys of despair.
She rested.