What did the rider see in the future?
Why did he, day by day, grow more silent, calmer, cooler, yet sadder in prophetic assurance of something to be?
No doubt, Jane thought, the rider, in his almost superhuman power of foresight, saw behind the horizon the dark, lengthening shadows that were soon to crowd and gloom over him and her and little Fay.

Jane Withersteen awaited the long-deferred breaking of the storm with a courage and embittered calm that had come to her in her extremity.

Hope had not died.

Doubt and fear, subservient to her will, no longer gave her sleepless nights and tortured days.

Love remained.