“There is the shame and regret for naughtiness. Have I troubled you a good deal?” in a repentant tone.
“It would have been worse if you were really ill.”
“I almost made myself so. I did not think that it might cause you anxiety. You see, I was only considering myself and heaping up sorrow where there was no real sorrow.”
“But you will not do it any more?”
“No, not any more,” she answered, with exquisite tenderness.
“And now shall we go in? What do you suppose Mère Lunde will say? And see, it is quite dark. There are two stars.”
All above them was the vault of deepest blue, resting on the tree-tops or the vague, far distance where all was indistinguishable. The river lapped along, some night birds gave a shrill cry, and far off a whippoorwill was repeating his mournful lay.
“Come.” He lifted her up in his strong arms and swung her around. The door stood wide open, framing in a vivid picture of the hearth fire, the big empty chair, Mère Lunde bending over some cookery. Every year her shoulders grew more round and her head was almost hidden between them.
Renée seemed to herself like one in a dream. She would not exult in this new possessorship. She would keep meek and lowly, remembering her indulgence in sinful feelings, her doubt and distrust.
“What has kept you so?” cried Mère Lunde. “The fish has dried to a crisp. And one never knows. It may be Indians or wild animals——”