"Sweet, there is no other reason for loving in all the wide world."
"I can think of other reasons too—little ones."
"What?"
"I love thee for the gold of thy hair, and for the holes at the corners of thy mouth, and for the seed cake thou didst give me, and for not beating me when I fell into the Governor's Spring in my new breeches, and for rubbing my legs that night."
Elinor threw her arms about the child with a swift hug, jealously noting that he was taller by a head than last year. The boy belongs to his mother. The man belongs to the world or to some other woman.
"I love thee too" was all she said.
Clasping his arms close about his mother's neck, Cecil whispered, "God is mending thee, and I am so glad, 'cos now thou wilt have no need to die."
When the child was gone the two women drew nearer to the fire and began to rake the ashes together, but slowly, as if loath to put out the cheerful domestic spark, though the air was too soft to need warming, and the full moon blandly shining in through the window served amply for light.
With the dying of the fire Elinor's cheer seemed to die too, and she sat silent in the moonlight with hands folded before her and feet thrust out toward the warm ashes.
"Margaret!"