She had been his, all unconsciously.

His life had been terrible, but it had been great.

As the hours of quiet thinking had multiplied, Columbine had grown in her divination of Wade's meaning.

His had been the spirit of man lighting the dark places; his had been the ruthless hand against all evil, terrible to destroy.
Her father! After all, how closely was she linked to the past! How closely protected, even in the hours of most helpless despair! Thus she understood him.

Love was the food of life, and hope was its spirituality, and beauty was its reward to the seeing eye.