“We were great friends,” he said. “We used to take long walks together of a Sunday afternoon. He 353 was a silent man, rather, and we did not talk much, but––shall I tell you one thing he used to say to me, often?”
“Yes, Philip.”
“I believed it then. But things happened to make me think that father was mistaken. For ten years I didn’t believe it at all.”
“What was it, Philip?”
“He used to say: ‘My boy, there’s only one thing in the world that’s worth while. And that is love.’”
“Why, that’s what Daddy always said, almost his very words!” she cried, her eyes filling.
“If I only knew––” he began.
But she could endure no more. She rose swiftly to her feet, her eyes devouring him, her arms stretched out.
“Marion!” he cried, and leaped to catch her, and folded her close, as he had clasped her in the cave. But now the arms that stole up around his neck did not fall away weakly as before, but tightened, and held him.
A long time they remained thus, in a silence broken only by the crackling of the flames, which they did not hear, and the wind rising outside the cottage, for which they did not care. At length he put his fingers under her chin, and raised her head so that he could look into her eyes.