Alva shook her head.
Lassie's big eyes grew yet more big. "Do you mean—you don't mean—oh, what do you mean?"
She leaned forward, looking eagerly up into the other's face. "Alva, Alva, it isn't—it can't be—oh, then you are really—"
Two great tears rolled down that other woman's face. She simply bowed her head and said nothing.
Lassie stared speechless for a minute; then—"I'm so glad—so glad," she stammered, "so glad. And you'll tell me all about it to-morrow?"
"Yes, dear," Alva whispered, "I'll tell you all to-morrow. I'll be glad to tell it all to you. The truth is, Lassie, that I thought that I was strong enough to live these days alone, but I learned that I am weaker than I thought. You see how weak I am. I am weeping now, but they are tears of joy, believe me—they are tears of joy; I am the happiest and most blessed woman in the whole wide world. And yet, it is your coming that leads me to weep. I had to have some outlet, dear, some one to whom to speak. And I want to live, Lassie, and be strong, very, very strong—for God."
Lassie sat staring.
"You don't understand, do you?" Alva said to her, with the same smile with which she had put the same question to Ingram.
But Lassie did not answer the question as Ingram had answered it.
"You will teach me and I shall learn to understand," she said.