William Auld threw the door open.
Andrew Clark was standing in the middle of the floor, with a look on his face that I had never seen there before,—a look of holy tenderness. He held out his arms to the white-haired old lady, who tottered forward to meet him.
"Marget! Marget! My own lass, Marget!" he cried huskily, as tears blinded his sight. He caught her and crushed her to him.
Margaret tried to speak, but her voice caught brokenly.
"Andrew! Andrew!—don't, lad,—oh! don't."
She laid her head on his breast and sobbed in utter content, as he stroked her hair.
"It's been ten year o' hell for me, Marget: ten year o' hell for us both," he went on, "but God has spoken to me in the darkness, in the quietness; through hunger and thirst. My lass, my lass;—my own, dear, patient lass."
He was holding her tightly to him and did not seem to know of our presence. Our hearts were too full to remain. We turned and left them in the joy of their reborn love.
The minister, with face aglow, got into his launch, while I jumped into my rowing boat.
When I was quite a long way from the shore, I looked back across the water to the cottage; and there, kneeling together on their veranda steps, their arms around each other, their heads bent in prayer, I saw Andrew Clark and Margaret.