Madge paused a moment.
“I think sorrow has made me a little more worthy of him,” she went on. “It has made me a little more like a woman. So if he cares still——”
“Ah, my dear, you say ‘still.’ Why, day by day he loves you more.”
Madge looked at Mrs. Home a moment in silence, and the sadness of her eyes was melted into pure tenderness.
“You are sure?” she said.
“He will tell you better than I.”
Madge gave a long sigh, then let her gaze wander down the steep path to the river, which crossed the weir and formed a short cut through the fields of Pangbourne. The sun, which was near to its setting, dazzled her a little, and she put up her hand to shade her eyes.
“Ah, that is he coming up the path,” she said. “He must have caught the earlier train. Shall we go to meet him?”
“You go, dear,” said Mrs. Home. “I will wait for you here.”