Yet that of Stella--for undoubtedly she had power--suggested another interpretation to his mind.

Or was it, after all, nothing but a variant, one of the Protean shapes of the ancient, life-compelling mystery?
And her strange chant, the song of which her father made light, but feared so much; her quick insight into the workings of his own thought; her courage in the face of danger and sharp physical miseries; her charm, her mastery.

What was he to make of them?
Lastly, why did he think so much about her?
It was not his habit where strangers were concerned.

And why had she awakened in his somewhat solitary and secluded mind a sympathy so unusual that it seemed to him that he had known her for years and not for hours?
Pondering these things and the fact that perhaps within the coming weeks he would find out their meaning, Morris went to sleep.

When he awoke next morning his mood had changed.