Ahead of them was a chaotic pit of gloom, a sea of blackness, and in the heart of that sea he saw a light.

He knew that it was a lamp in one of Kedsty's windows and that Marette was guiding herself by that light when she started down the slope with her hand still in his.

That she had made no effort to withdraw it made him unconscious of the almost drowning discomfort of the fresh deluge of rain that beat their faces.

One of her fingers had gripped itself convulsively about his thumb, like a child afraid of falling.

And each time the thunder crashed that soft hold on his thumb tightened, and Kent's soul acclaimed.
They drew swiftly nearer to the light, for it was not far from the knoll to Kedsty's place.