That was a fresh pleasure! What would he say? What would he feel? Dear
John! His letters had been calm and matter of fact, but that was his way.
She did not mind it now. He loved her, and what did words matter with
this glorious knowledge in her heart?
To have a baby! Her very own—and John's!
How wonderful! How utterly divine—!
Her little feet hardly touched the moss beneath them, she wanted to skip and sing.
Next May! Next May! A Spring flower—a little life to care for when war, of course, would have ended and all the world again could be happy and young!
And then she returned by the tiny ancient church. She had the key of it, a golden one which John had given her on their first coming down. It hung on her bracelet with her own private key.
The sun was pouring through the western window, carpeting the altar steps in translucent cloth of gold.
Amaryllis stole up the short aisle, and paused when she came between the two tall canopied tombs of recumbent sixteenth century knights, which made so dignified a screen for the little side aisles—and then she moved on and knelt in the shaft of the sunlight there at the carved rails.
And no one ever raised to God a purer or more fervent prayer.
She stayed until the sun sunk below the window, and then she rose and went back to the house, and up to her cedar room. And now she must write to John!