"Miss MacAllister, I suppose that I was angry. It is I who ought to ask your forgiveness.... I didn't mean to be angry. But I felt hurt.... You had been so kind just before that day.... I was foolish enough to hope that you would continue to be kind. But when that day came you were different, and it hurt.... Miss MacAllister, I can't keep it back. I love you.... That's why it hurt."
She was sitting by one of the small windows of the saloon, with one arm resting on its sill. Through the conversation she had kept her head lowered. As his accents grew warmer, she turned towards the window, and seemed to be gazing on the water, which the northeast monsoon, driving against the current, was raising in choppy waves. He had risen and was standing in front of her. He could not see her averted face, and she made no answer.
"I know that it must seem absurd and presumptuous of me. I'm a poor and unknown missionary doctor. But I love you.... I tried not to. But I couldn't help it.... I resolved never to mention it to you.... But we were left alone here together and—I just couldn't help myself.... I had to tell you."
Without turning her face, she extended her right hand to him. He caught it in his and, dropping on one knee, pressed his lips to it.
"I'm glad you told me, Donald."
For a moment he could hardly believe his ears. He looked up in a dazed, wondering fashion. Her face was no longer averted. Shy, blushing, but smiling, it was turned towards him, and their eyes met. Almost incredulously, wonderingly he asked:
"Do you mean that?" (He did not dare say her name.)
"Yes, Donald."
He bowed his head again over the hand he held, and felt her other hand laid softly, timidly on his wavy masses of fair hair. For a few moments it rested there like a benediction. When she lifted it he rose and, turning her face up to his, gravely, reverently pressed upon her lips the sacramental kiss of pledged love.
For a time they sat silent. His arm was around her. Her head was on his shoulder. Her forehead and the crown of rich brown hair were touching his cheek. Neither wanted to speak. Each was trying to comprehend the mystery of love, the mystery of two souls who had held aloof from each other, and had fenced with each other, and had strenuously asserted their independence of each other. But all the time they had been restless and dissatisfied. Then suddenly and unexpectedly they had been forced to confess that they could not be happy apart. And immediately in that confession they had found joy unutterable. Over and over again it passed through their minds. And when they were done they understood it no more than when they began. But they knew the fact.