The first faint lines of light came into the eastern sky. Ruth stood by
the window, watching the colour come on the grey above the hill, while
two or three stars still shone dimly. The night lamp flickered, then
went out. She set it in the hall and came back to the window.
As Miss Ainslie's rug had been woven, little by little, purple, crimson,
and turquoise, gleaming with inward fires, shone upon the clouds.
Carl came over to Ruth, putting his arm around her. They watched it
together--that miracle which is as old as the world, and yet ever new.
"I don't see--" he began.
"Hush, dear," Ruth whispered, "I know, and I'll tell you some time, but
I don't want her to know."
The sky brightened slowly, and the intense colour came into the room
with the light. Ruth drew the curtains aside, saying, in a low tone,
"it's beautiful, isn't it?"
There was a sudden movement in the room and they turned, to see Miss
Ainslie sitting up, her cheeks flushed, and the letters scattered around
her. The ribbon had slipped away, and her heavy white hair fell over her
shoulders. Ruth went to her, to tie it back again, but she put her away,
very gently, without speaking.
Carl stood by the window, thinking, and Miss Ainslie's eyes rested upon
him, with wonder and love. The sunrise stained her white face and her
eyes shone brightly, as sapphires touched with dawn. The first ray of
the sun came into the little room and lay upon her hair, changing its
whiteness to gleaming silver. Then all at once her face illumined, as
from a light within.
Carl moved away from the window, strangely drawn toward her, and her
face became radiant with unspeakable joy. Then the passion of her denied
motherhood swelled into a cry of longing--"My son!"
"Mother!" broke from his lips in answer He went to her blindly, knowing
only that they belonged to each other, and that, in some inscrutable
way, they had been kept apart until it was too late. He took her into
his arms, holding her close, and whispering, brokenly, what only she and
God might hear! Ruth turned away, sobbing, as if it was something too
holy for her to see.
Miss Ainslie, transfigured with unearthly light, lifted her face to his.
Her lips quivered for an instant, then grew cold beneath his own. She
sank back among the pillows, with her eyes closed, but with yet another
glory upon the marble whiteness of her face, as though at the end of her
journey, and beyond the mists that divided them, her dream had become
divinely true.
Then he, who should have been her son, bent down, the tears falling
unheeded upon her face, and kissed her again.