It was a blur of light, in the midst of which she saw Charlotte like some object marked, by contrast, in blackness, saw her waver in the field of vision, saw her removed, transported, doomed.

And he had named Charlotte, named her again, and she had MADE him--which was all she had needed more: it was as if she had held a blank letter to the fire and the writing had come out still larger than she hoped.

The recognition of it took her some seconds, but she might when she spoke have been folding up these precious lines and restoring them to her pocket.

"Well, I shall be as much as ever then the cause of what you do.

I haven't the least doubt of your being up to that if you should think I might get anything out of it; even the little pleasure," she laughed, "of having said, as you call it, 'more.' Let my enjoyment of this therefore, at any price, continue to represent for you what _I_ call sacrificing you." She had drawn a long breath; she had made him do it ALL for her, and had lighted the way to it without his naming her husband.