But it returned.
It was fought against with desperation.

It was scorned as want of faith.
Michael's strength waned with each conflict.

But it always returned.

At last it became to him like a mysterious figure, always present with him.
"Fay," he whispered over and over again through the endless burning nights of summer.

"Dear one, come soon." There was neither speech nor language, only the lying bells in the dawn.
The shadow deepened.
A frightful suspense laid its cold, creeping hold on Michael.
What could have happened?
Was she ill?
Was she dead?
He waited, and waited, and waited.