Her hands were swift and live; he held them fast. The ghostliness of daybreak was in the room. In the pallor she sat at the edge of the bed, the ball gown wan, and the faded lilies drooping at her breast. Being so young, he was shy that his hair was on end and the collar of his nightshirt crumpled.
"I'm sorry," she said; "I've been sorry all the night."
Her penitence started his tears, and blinking wouldn't keep them back. He wanted to smear them away, but he didn't want to let go her hands. He turned his head. He was ashamed—but less ashamed than he would have expected—that she should see him blub.
"Don't!" she said, and he had never heard that note before. "You'll make me hate myself."
"I love you," he exclaimed, "I love you."
"Sh! You mustn't say that, Con," she murmured.
"I love you, I love you," cried the boy.
"I know," she said, "I know you do."
And, wonderfully, there was nothing wonderful to his mind that he had owned it to her. At the instant there was nothing but perfect peace.
"You've made me so happy," he breathed.