“Yes.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t say it for that. I just had to have the truth between us. And I don’t want—pity. If—if I ever get back—I’ll make you love me, Jane.” There was a hint of his old masterfulness—and she was thrilled by it.
She withdrew her hand and stood up. “Then I’ll—pray—that you—get back——”
“Do you mean it, Janey?”
“I mean it, Evans.”
“Then pray good and hard, my dear, for I’m going to do it.”
They smiled at each other, but it was a sacred moment.
The things they did after that were rendered unimportant by the haze of enchantment which hung over Evans’ revelation. No man can tell a woman that he loves her, no woman can listen, without a throbbing sense of the magnitude of the thing which has happened. From such beginnings is written the history of humanity.
Deep in a hollow where the wind had swept up the snow, and left the ground bare they found crowfoot in an emerald carpet—there were holly branches dripping red berries like blood on the white drifts. They filled their arms, and at last they were ready to go.
Evans whistled for Rusty but the little dog did not come. “He’ll find us; he knows every inch of the way.”