Don’t laugh, dear Richard! I know I was never very religious! It is so good to be alive! [With a little shiver.] Alive——! Alive——! Religion is just for poor sick dead people, but——
Richard.
What, Lydia?
Lydia.
Well, on Sunday, would you send a messenger to the Rev. Mr. Heathcote and have him offer that—that thanksgiving in the prayer-book about a safe return? [With a desperate little sob.] Oh, Richard, I—I couldn’t bear to have been hurt in the runaway—Not to be here, alive and happy, in Bird’s Nest——
[She stops, panting, and he gathers her into safe, protecting arms.
Richard.
But we are in Bird’s Nest, my dearest! We are! We are!
Lydia.
[Looking up from his breast in frightened appeal.] Of course we are! But I’m glad to have you tell me so! You see, Richard, long before I was a married woman—one afternoon last spring it was—an old gipsy woman came to our house one day, and she read my palm—Mamma was out—or she never would have permitted it!—And she told me——