One day after long silence she turned quickly and met his eyes. After that she ceased to spin webs, for she saw. Yet she was as blind as he, though she did not know it any more than he did.
At last he saw, in his turn, and the flash of the illumination nearly blinded him.
It was late evening: Betty was nailing up a trailing rose, and he was standing by the ladder holding the nails and the snippets of scarlet cloth. The ladder slipped, and he caught her in his arms. As soon as she had assured him that she was not hurt, he said good night and left her.
Betty went indoors and cried. "What a pity!" she said. "Oh, what a pity! Now he'll be frightened, and it's all over. He'll never come again."
But the next evening he came, and when they had walked through the rose garden and had come to the sun-dial he stopped and spoke—
"I've been thinking of nothing else since I saw you. When I caught you last night. Forgive me if I'm a fool—but when I held you—don't be angry—but it seemed to me that you loved me—"
"Nothing of the sort," said Betty very angrily.
"Then I must be mad," he said; "the way you caught my neck with your arm, and your face was against mine, and your hair crushed up against my ear. Oh, Betty, if you don't love me, what shall I do? For I can't live without you."
Betty had won.