Rowan looked at her quickly. “You don’t mean Norma Tait?”
“Don’t I? Why not?” She added a corollary. “Norma is growing younger every day. She has learned to laugh again.”
“I’m glad. Life plays some queer tricks, doesn’t it? But maybe in the end things even up.”
From where she was cuddling the romping boy Ruth looked up and made confession. “At first I thought I wouldn’t bring him with us. I wanted these first days to be ours—just yours and mine. But that was selfish. He has as much right to you as I have. Now I’m glad he is here. You won’t think him in the way, will you?”
It did not seem to him necessary to answer that in words. He took little Rowan into his arms and held him there till the child fell asleep.
When the baby was safely tucked up in the tent Ruth and Rowan walked to the brow of the hill and watched the murk mist settle down into the mountain cañons and drive the purple glow into the lake. They saw the stars come out one by one until the heavens were full of them.
“The day is dead,” he said at last in a low voice which held the throb of pain.
She knew that in his thoughts he was breasting again the troubled waters that had swept them so far apart. Her warm, strong little hand slipped into his. Cheerfully she took up his words:
“Yes, the day is dead—the long day so full of sorrow for us both. But now the night has blotted out our grief. We are at peace—alone—beneath the everlasting stars.”
He could not yet quite escape the net. “I’ve been a poor makeshift of a husband, Ruth. I’ve brought you much worry and sorrow. And I’ve put a stain on you and the boy that never can be wiped out.”