In her was almost every note of human feeling: home and duty, song and gaiety, daring and neighbourly kindness, love of sky and sea and air and orchards, of the good-smelling earth and wholesome animal life, and all the incidents, tragic, comic, or commonplace, of human existence.
How wonderful love was, she thought! How wonderful that so many millions who had loved had come and gone, and yet of all they felt they had spoken no word that laid bare the exact feeling to her or to any other.
The barbarians who raised these very stones she sat on, they had loved and hated, and everything they had dared or suffered was recorded--but where?
And who could know exactly what they felt?
She realised the almost keenest pain of life, that universal agony, the trying to speak, to reveal; and the proof, the hourly proof even the wisest and most gifted have, that what they feel they can never quite express, by sound, or by colour, or by the graven stone, or by the spoken word....

But life was good, ah yes! and all that might be revealed to her she would pray for; and Philip--her Philip--would help her to the revelation.
Her Philip! Her heart gave a great throb, for the knowledge that she was a wife came home to her with a pleasant shock.

Her name was no longer Guida Landresse de Landresse, but Guida d'Avranche.

She had gone from one tribe to another, she had been adopted, changed.

A new life was begun.
She rose, slowly made her way down to the sea, and proceeded along the sands and shore-paths to the town.