She stopped and stood still, as a deer stops when it hears the hunter's voice.
He was closer now, and again he cried: "Janet, oh, Janet, wait for me."
Her pitcher was thrown upon the sward and she came back a little way, eye and heart and bosom calling to each other through the storm.
"Wha's callin' me?" she cried, her voice bleating like a lamb's.
"Oh, Janet, you know who's calling you—I have called you long," and holy passion burned in the voice that spoke, leaped from the face that came closer, still closer, to her own.
The white figure swayed in the darkness. Then the night glowed about her like the noon, and the strong arms held her close, and time and sorrow and God all gave her up ungrudgingly to the bliss they had planned together; for in secret had they bedecked her as a bride adorned for her husband.
It was long after, how long may not be told, for God would let no angel mark the time; but the dark still was brooding, and the trees whispering still, when he said: "To-morrow, Janet—all the years have made us ready—yet not to-morrow, for it is to-day—to-day, please God."
She came closer, closer to him still, for hers had been an unsheltered life, and the warmth was strangely sweet.
"Let us go to the spring, dear heart. Let us be children again." Together they went on, these pilgrims of the night. While they were going the day began to break. "The night is far spent," he heard her whisper joyously.