Before them the lawn stretched unbroken to the other big house, where Nancy had wondered her way to womanhood.

Empty now it was, darkened as those years of her dreaming girlhood must be to the present.

Should she enter it, she knew the house would murmur with echoes of other days; there would be the wraith of the girl she once was flitting as of old through its peopled rooms.
And out there actually before her was the stretch of lawn where she had played games of tragic pretense with the imperious, dreaming boy.
Vividly there came back that late afternoon when the monster of Bernal's devising had frightened them for the last time--when in a sudden flash of insight they had laughed the thing away forever and faced each other with a certain half-joyous, half-foolish maturity of understanding.

One day long after this she had humorously bewailed to Bernal the loss of their child's faith in the Gratcher.

He had replied that, as an institution, the Gratcher was imperishable--that it was brute humanity's instinctive negation to the incredible perfections of life; that while the child's Gratcher was not the man's, the latter was yet of the same breed, however it might be refined by the subtleties of maturity: that the man, like the child, must fashion some monster of horror to deter him when he hears God's call to live.
She had not been able to understand, nor did she now.