When she opened the door of the cedar parlour, with its soft lamps and great glowing logs, she saw Denzil was already there, seated on the sofa beside the fire.
She ran to him before he could rise, the movement she knew was pain to him—and she sank down beside him and held out her hands.
"Beloved darling!" he whispered in exaltation, and she slipped forward into his arms.
Oh! the bliss of it all! After the months of separation, and the horrible trenches and the battles and the suffering, the days and nights of agonising pain! It seemed to Denzil that his being melted within him—Heaven itself had come.
They could not speak coherently for some moments, everything was too filled with holy joy.
"At last! at last!" he cried presently. "Now we shall part no more!"
Then he had to be assured that she loved him still.
"It is I who must take care of you now, Denzil, and I shall love to do that," she cooed.
"I have not thought much of the hurt," he answered her, "for all these months I have just been living for this day, and now it has come, darling one, and I can hardly believe that it is true, it is so absolutely divine—"
They could not talk of anything but themselves and love for an hour, they told each other of their longings and anxieties—and at last they spoke of John.