They met at the gate of the little compound that
surrounded the bungalow Will had taken for his wife, and though the
light of the sinking sun smote with a certain ruddiness upon Daisy,
Muriel was unspeakably shocked by her appearance.
Her white hair, her deathly pallor, the haunting misery of her
eyes--above all, her silence--went straight to the girl's heart.
Without a single word she gathered Daisy close in her warm young arms
and so held her in a long and speechless embrace.
After all, it was Daisy who spoke first, gently drawing herself away.
"Come in, darling! You must be nearly dead after your awful journey.
I can't think how Will could ask it of you at this time of the year. I
couldn't myself."
"I would have come to you from the world's end--and gladly," Muriel
answered, in her deep voice. "You know I would."
And that was all that passed between them, for Will was present, and
Daisy had already begun to lead her guest into the house.
As the evening wore on, Muriel was more and more struck by the great
change she saw in her. They had not met for ten months, but twice
as many years seemed to have passed over Daisy, crushing her beneath
their weight. All her old sprightliness had vanished utterly. She
spoke but little, and there was in her manner to her husband a wistful
humility, a submission so absolute, that Muriel, remembering her
ancient spirit, could have wept.
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