“But you are wounded, Thomas,” she broke in; “see, the blood runs fast from your arm. Is the thrust deep?”
“I have not looked to see. I have had no time to look.”
“Take off your coat, Thomas, that I may dress the wound. Nay, I will have it so.”
So I drew off the garment, not without pain, and rolled up the shirt beneath, and there was the hurt, a clean thrust through the fleshy part of the lower arm. Lily washed it with water from the brook, and bound it with her kerchief, murmuring words of pity all the while. To say truth, I would have suffered a worse harm gladly, if only I could find her to tend it. Indeed, her gentle care broke down the fence of my doubts and gave me a courage that otherwise might have failed me in her presence. At first, indeed, I could find no words, but as she bound my wound, I bent down and kissed her ministering hand. She flushed red as the evening sky, the flood of crimson losing itself at last beneath her auburn hair, but it burned deepest upon the white hand which I had kissed.
“Why did you do that, Thomas?” she said, in a low voice.
Then I spoke. “I did it because I love you, Lily, and do not know how to begin the telling of my love. I love you, dear, and have always loved as I always shall love you.”
“Are you so sure of that, Thomas?” she said, again.
“There is nothing else in the world of which I am so sure, Lily. What I wish to be as sure of is that you love me as I love you.”
For a moment she stood quiet, her head sunk almost to her breast, then she lifted it and her eyes shone as I had never seen them shine before.
“Can you doubt it, Thomas?” she said.