The only answer was a soft hand-pressure.
“I hardly know what I am about, Agatha,—not even whether or no my wife loves me; she did not when we were first married, I fear?”
Agatha drooped her head.
“Never mind, she shall love me yet; I am quite fearless now.” He stood up, holding her tight in his arms, as if daring the whole world to wrest her from him. His whole aspect was changed. It was like the breaking up of an Arctic winter, when the trees bud, and the rivers pour sounding down, and the sun bursts out, reigning gloriously. For a long time they remained thus, clasped together, so motionless that the little robin of the arbutus-trees hopped on to a bough near them and began a song.
“We must go in now,” said Agatha.
“Ay; we must not forget Anne, or anybody. One can do so much good when one is happy!”
“I feel so.” She rose, hanging on his arm, but trembling still, almost frightened by the insanity of his joy, whirled dizzily in the torrent of his overwhelming love.
“You understand now what I had to say to you! You can guess how I mean to act as regards my brother?”
“I think I can.”
“And you will give your consent? Without it I would have done nothing. I would not have taken from my wife these worldly goods, and left her only me and my love, unless she willed it so.”