"Helen," he said one night in late September when they were left alone, "I want to tell you something."
She did not stir, and she answered slowly, softly, in the voice of one who slept, "Tell it."
"It's about beauty. I'd never seen it till you showed it to me."
"Did I? When?"
"I'm not sure. That night—"
"On the moor?"
"Always on the moor! When you had the basket. It was the first time after I came back."
"But you couldn't see me in the darkness."
"Yes, a little. You remember you told me to light the lamps. And I could hear you—your voice running with the wind—And then each day since. I want to thank you."
"Oh—" She made a little sound of depreciation and happiness.