For Marette, in filling her little pack on that night of hurried flight, had chosen strange things.

On the sunlit rock, where he had placed them, were a pair of the little pumps which he had fallen on his knees to worship in her room, and with these she had crowded into the pack one of the billowing, sweet-smelling dresses which had made his heart stand still for a moment when he first looked into their hiding-place.

It was no longer soft and cobwebby as it had been then, like down fluttering against his cheeks, but sodden and discolored, as it lay on the rock with little rivulets of water running from it.
With the shoes and the dress were the intimate necessities which Marette had taken with her.

But it was one of the pumps that Kent picked up and crushed close to his ragged breast--one of the two she had worn that first wonderful day she had come to see him at Cardigan's place.
This hour was the beginning of another change in Kent.

It seemed to him that a message had come to him from Marette herself, that the spirit of her had returned to him and was with him now, stirring strange things in his soul and warming his blood with a new heat.