"Little did I think, Valmai, it was you who had made everything look so cosy and sweet for me—these flowers on the table and all those pretty fal-lals on my dressing-table. Little did I think it was my little wife who had prepared them all for me. But as I entered the front door a strange feeling of happiness and brightness came over me."
"And I knew the first tone of your voice, Cardo. Oh, I would know it anywhere—among a thousand."
There were innumerable questions for the one to ask and the other to answer as they sat in the glowing firelight. First, there was the description of the repairs required by Captain Owen's ship—"Blessed repairs, Valmai!"—and the extraordinary special Providence which had caused the ss. Ariadne to collide at midships with the Burrawalla, and, moreover, so to damage her that Cardo's berth and those of the three other inmates of his cabin would alone be disturbed by the necessary repairs.
"Captain Owen thinks we shall be ready to sail in three days, so it is not worth while writing to my father," said Cardo. "The thick fog which looked so dismal as I drove into Caer Madoc with him—how little I guessed it would culminate in the darkness which brought about the collision, and so unite me with my beloved wife. Valmai, if Providence ever arranged a marriage, it was yours and mine, dearest."
"But, Cardo—"
"'But me no buts,' my lovely white sea-bird. Nothing can alter the fact that you are my own little wife."
"Yes, I know," said Valmai, "but if you love me as much as you say you do, grant me one request, Cardo."
"A hundred, dearest; what is it?"
"Well, we have had to be deceitful and secret—more so than I have ever been in my life. We could not help it; but now, here, let us be open. Give me leave to tell my uncle the truth."
"Valmai! he will write at once to his brother, and the news will reach my father, and it will break his heart to find I have deceived him. No, let me be the first to tell him. I shall have no hesitation in doing so when I return this time next year."