She tottered, reaching blindly for the chimney for support, and without further words he gathered her into his arms as if she had been the child she looked, and held her there, clutching her to him fiercely, kissing the brown hair that brushed against his face, and soothing her with vague murmurings.
Her breath came in broken gasps. She laughed hysterically.
"I thought they were killing you—killing you—and I couldn't leave my babies—they were so frightened, poor little mites—I thought they were killing you."
"Betty!"
Her arms about his neck tightened their grip convulsively, forcing his head down until his face rested against hers. And so they stood, rigid, while the two children stared with round eyes and whimpered unheeded.
Her grip relaxed. Her hands dropped slowly to her side. She leaned back against the circle of his arms, and looked up at him—a strange look, full of a sweet humility.
"I thought I was strong," she said quietly. "I'm weak—but I don't care."
He looked at her with glowing eyes, not understanding, but content that the journey was ended, that she was there, in his arms, speaking to him.
"I always loved you, dear," she went on. "You knew that, didn't you? But I thought I was strong enough to give you up for—for a principle—but I was wrong. I can't do without you—I knew it just now when I saw—" She stopped, and shuddered. "I can't do without you," she repented.
She felt the muscles of his arms quiver, and pressed more closely against them. They were strong arms, protecting arms, restful to lean against at the journey's end.