She opened her eyes, human violets, blue like these flowers, innocent like a maid, but troubled as if far away cold winds were sweeping down. “Do you feel the wind?” she said.
“There is no wind.”
“Yes; and cold; I feel the chill.”
“The air from the river,” he said, releasing her.
“And the sun is down. It is late. We must go,” she said.
They went back down the slope to the road, hand in hand as they had come up, but not the same. The pain which accompanies love had entered her heart.
She was never to be perfectly easy again. No woman ever is who loves. Some months, some days, at last a few hours and a few moments of happiness she was to have with which to balance the years of life with love and this pain. But ask her! She will tell you that they were worth more than the years. So many more women than we know are like that.
Once when they were near the town, he looked at her happily and said: “I have not told you the news. It concerns you, too, now. I got a raise in salary yesterday.”
“I am so glad,” she answered smiling.
“Oh, I deserved it. I am making good. Father knows it,” he put in.