“Dear,” she whispered, “it is Christmas night. And you did not even know it.”
Suddenly the tears he had not known for years burned in his eyes, and he closed them, trembling, awed by the mercy of God that had been vouchsafed to him at the eleventh hour, else he had slain his soul.
After a while he felt her lips touching his brow. And now silent in the spell of the dream that invaded her—the exquisite vision of wifehood—she sat motionless with childlike eyes lost in thought.
Once more he turned his head and looked at her. Then her slender neck bent, and he saw that her eyes were divinely blue—
“Cecile!”—he faltered—“Madonna inviolate!... The woman—between—friends—”
THE END