"You are happy—you are sure you are happy?" he asks, as he has asked a thousand times before.
"Ah, yes," she sighs. "Too happy almost, it seems to me."
"And of what were you thinking all this long time?"
"I was thinking of something Etwynde told me long ago, dear when I was very wicked, very discontented, very wretched."
"What was it?"
"That anthem from the 'Elijah': 'Trust in the Lord; wait patiently for Him, and He will give thee thy heart's desire.'"
"And what was—your—heart's desire, my own?"
"Can you ask?" she murmurs passionately; and in the soft summer dusk he draws her arms about his neck, and kisses the trembling lips.
"I can, I do. Tell me," he says, with soft insistence.
"Just your own graceless self, Keith!"