midnight
Yet she was far removed from unhappiness . Her increasing pride in him , and in his achievement , prevented that . Only there were moments when the inner vision was too vivid ; moments between sleep and waking when pictures trooped unbidden through the corridors of her brain ; when neither sleep nor effort of will could shield her from that awful visualisation of the dreaded thing , which is the artist 's penalty in the day of trouble . At such times , the fear that he might slip out of her life without knowledge of the great fact , that no amount of repetition can minimise , nor custom stale ; without knowledge that through his long love and constancy she had attained to the ` greatest creative art of all , ' had almost dragged her out of bed at midnight to begin the letter that should carry the word to him amid the sublimity of his glaciers and eternal silences . But always something stronger than fear had restrained her ; so that the weeks had dropped away one by one , like faded petals , and the secret that was to be the crowning glory of their new life together still lay hidden in her heart . The cheerful round of festivities common to an Indian Hill season had passed her by ; and she was content to have it so . Between her canvas and her unpractised needle , between the companionship of Michael , and of the Desmonds -- while they were ` up ' -- her days had gone softly , yet pleasantly and profitably in more respects than one .