Oh, my husband, will you ever know, ever understand how much happiness you have given to me? Before I knew you life was an arid wilderness. I was but young, but there was always Peter. Afterwards I came to a garden of roses and lilies set about with the tender green of spring. And our year! How wonderful it has been! Sorrow came to us, but joy entered a little later. Sorrow we thrust forth, and joy crept still closer, and has remained with us even to the end. Sorrow will dog Dimbie's footsteps for a little season, but joy will triumph over all—"for here we have no continuing city."
*****
Dimbie came home as the first snowflake brushed the window-pane. In the firelight he knelt and told me of the strange thing that had happened. He found the cottage, and as he entered the little chicken turned over on its side, stretched its legs and died. A child with golden hair leaned over it and wept bitterly.
"And had it suffered?" I whispered.
He shook his head.
"The woman said not, but it was lamed. The child from the day of the accident cared for it, tended it, nursed it. It slept in a box in the kitchen, and became very tame. The woman is a widow, and this little one the only child."
"Did you tell her of—me?"
"Yes," said Dimbie gently.
I laid my cheek to his, and he stroked my hair in his old, dear fashion. And we sat thus, and once again told each other the old, old story of our love. The soft snow brushed the window-pane, the corners of the room became shadowy and mysterious, and hand in hand we waited for the light which always follows the darkness.