"Afraid!" She laughed in grim mirthlessness. "Afraid of a bed-ridden woman!"
"I was afraid it would make thee unhappy." The sardonic gleam melted into softness, then became more terrible than before.
"And so thou hast made me happy instead!"
"Stab me not more than I merit. I did not think people would be cruel enough to tell thee."
"Thine own lips told me."
"Nay—by my soul," he cried, startled.
"Thine eyes told me, then."
"I feared so," he said, turning them away. "When she came into my house, I—I dared not go to see thee—that was why I did not come, though I always meant to, Sarah, my life. I feared to look thee in the eyes. I foresaw they would read the secret in mine—so I was afraid."
"Afraid!" she repeated bitterly. "Afraid I would scratch them out! Nay, they are good eyes. Have they not seen my heart? For twenty years they have been my light.... Those eyes and mine have seen our children die."