Unorna drew one deep breath when she first heard her name fall with a loving accent from the Wanderer's lips.

Surely the bitterness of despair was past since she was loved and not called Beatrice.

The sigh that came then was of relief already felt, the forerunner, as she fancied, too, of a happiness no longer dimmed by shadows of fear and mists of rising remorse.

Gazing into his eyes, she seemed to be watching in their reflection a magic change.

She had been Beatrice to him, Unorna to herself, but now the transformation was at hand--now it was to come.