She clasped her hands in a delicious ecstasy. “I know, I know. But you know how foolish I am. I felt—oh, Bill, forgive me!—I felt that, if you had really cared, a way of sending me a message might have been found. Of course, it was impossible. And there was more than that. When we parted last week, I thought you seemed not to care very much—”
“Oh, Margaret!”
“I know, I know. I know now how foolish I was, but that is what I thought—and, Bill, it tortured me. I've not been able to sleep at nights. That is how I was awake just now.”
“Margaret, I believe you're crying.”
“I'm so—so happy now.”
“Oh, so am I! Aren't you glad I came, Margaret?”
She murmured, “Oh, Bill!”; gave him a smile that pictured her answer.
Mutually they gazed for a space, drinking delight.
Her thirst quenched, Margaret said:
“Bill, those nights, those terrible nights when I have been doubtful of you, filled me with thoughts that shaped into a poem last night.”