"I never was so certain of anything in my life, except it be that I love you."
There was conviction in his voice which comforted her soul. Still, she sought enlightenment upon another point.
"Are you sure she doesn't love you?"
"I think it is very improbable."
"Well, I don't, then!" she exclaimed, vigorously resuming her stroke. "You saved her life, and I don't see how she could help it," she continued.
"I didn't save your life, though, Emily."
The boat was in the shadow of the island trees, where it had been when he had first spoken of love to her that morning. She let it drift; again the water made sweet music lipping along the side; they would associate it forever with these ineffable moments.
"No," she murmured, her honesty and innocence giving her courage to say that which another might have sought to conceal, "you didn't, but—I don't believe—I can—help it, either."
It was out now. His love had shown her her own. She was another woman; never again would she look at life with the eyes of the girl of yesterday. Ferdinand had come to Miranda; and Ariel had opened the eyes of the maiden to new things on the old island more wonderful than those revealed by Prospero's magic wand. And to Revere, too, the complexion of the world suddenly and swiftly altered.
"Oh, Emily, you don't mean it!" he cried in exultant surprise. He had not hoped so soon for this revelation of the woman's heart.