Little Fay slept dreamlessly upon the bed, her golden curls streaming over the pillow.

Jane had the child's worship.

Would she lose that, too?
And if she did, what then would be left?
Conscience thundered at her that there was left her religion.

Conscience thundered that she should be grateful on her knees for this baptism of fire; that through misfortune, sacrifice, and suffering her soul might be fused pure gold.

But the old, spontaneous, rapturous spirit no more exalted her.