Her tears ceased absolutely on his shoulder, and Winnie was for a moment motionless. Then as he did not speak again, she unclasped her arms and drew back her head to look at him. The constant flashes of light gave her chance enough.
"You heard me right," he said.
"Are you?" — she said wistfully.
"By God's help — this night and for ever."
Winnie brought her hands together, half clapping, half clasping them, and then threw them to their former position around his neck, exclaiming, —
"Oh if she had known it before —!"
There was no answer to that, of words; and Winnie could not see the sudden paleness which witnessed to the answer within. But it came, keen as those lightning flashes, home-thrust as the thunderbolts they witnessed to, that his 'now' had come too late for her.
The lightnings grew fainter, and failed — the thunder muttered off in the distance, and ceased to be heard — the clouds rolled down the river and scattered away, just as the dawn was breaking on Wut-a-qut-o. There had been nothing spoken in the farmhouse kitchen since Winnie's last words. Winthrop was busy with his own thoughts, which he did not tell; and Winnie had been giving hers all the expression they could bear, in tears and kisses and the strong clasp of her weak arm, and the envious resting, trusting, lay of her head upon Winthrop's shoulder and breast. When the glare of the lightning had all gone, and the grey light was beginning to walk in at the windows, her brother spoke to her.
"Winnie, — you would be better in bed."
"Oh no, — I wouldn't. — Do you want me to go, Governor?" she added presently.