Lucille was ever near me, her sweet face always in view, when I looked up, smiling with the love in her eyes.
The winter snows melted. Green grass and shrubs began to peep up through the warm earth. The buds on the trees swelled with the sap, bears crawled from hollow logs, the birds flew northward.
The songsters of early spring flitted about the house as I sat in front one day watching them gather material for their nests. It reminded me that I had better see to providing a nest for my song bird. Lucille sat near me. I had not spoken for a space.
“Are you watching the birds?” she asked.
“Aye. Thinking that I might well be about their trade.”
Lucille did not answer.
“Sweetheart,” I said softly, “’tis little time we have had for love since I found you the second time, and I would know whether you are of the same mind that you were. For I love you now; I will love you always, I love you more and more every day. Tell me: Do you love me yet? Has the time brought no change?”
How anxiously did I wait for the answer. Now that I was broken in strength, with not the prospect of attaining distinction in arms that I once had, sick, enfeebled in body, but not in spirit, could I hope that she still loved me?
“Tell me,” I whispered softly, “has time wrought no change, Lucille?”
She let the lids fall over her eyes, then with a little tremor, she looked into my face. Sweetly as the murmur of a south wind in the trees she said: