“We came back in April,” she answered softly.
“Why?”
“Because I saw in the home papers that you were ill, and—I wanted to be near.”
“Why, again?” he questioned, almost cruelly, but now he had reached a point where he could bear no uncertainty, no mere palliation.
“Because, Ernest, though I know that there are many other things in life besides caring,—caring is best;” the drooping lids rose slowly, and the gray eyes looked fully and frankly into his. Then, dropping on her knees beside him, she cried passionately, as she circled with a gesture all the beauty round about, “Can you hear, can you see as you used? Ah, I have been so horribly afraid!”
Clasping his long, thin fingers, that would tremble, about hers, the Man drew Eileen toward him; “I can hear the wind in the grass, I can see what lies behind your eyes, Eileen; do I need more?”
“You won’t let the fairy story stop? Please promise you won’t,” interrupted the Boy, unable to wait longer for his answer.
“Part of it must,” answered Eileen, “because you see, Boy, the Princess who wished to live in a story-book, has turned out to be merely a woman—” “For the sake of her lover who was not a prince,” added the Man.
Then, as the Boy looked at them, the comprehension of it all slowly beamed from his solemn eyes.