Chloe drew the silken string from her bosom, as she descended the dim pathway through the furies, and set her fingers travelling along it for the number of the knots.

'I have no right to be living,' she said.

Seven was the number; seven years she had awaited her lover's return; she counted her age and completed it in sevens.

Fatalism had sustained her during her lover's absence; it had fast hold of her now.

Thereby had she been enabled to say, 'He will come'; and saying, 'He has come,' her touch rested on the first knot in the string.