“Even while y’u believed me one?”
“I didn’t. I never would believe you one—not deep in my heart. I wouldn’t let myself. I made excuses for you—explained everything to myself.”
“Yet your reason told y’u I was guilty.”
“Yes, I think my mind hated you and my heart loved you.”
He adored her for the frank simplicity of her confession, that out of the greatness of her love she dared to make no secret of it to him. Direct as a boy, she was yet as wholly sweet as the most retiring girl could be.
“Y’u always swamp my vocabulary, sweetheart. I can’t ever tell y’u—life wouldn’t be long enough—how much I care for you.”
“I’m glad,” she said simply.
They stood looking at each other, palms pressed to palms in meeting hands, supremely happy in this miracle of love that had befallen them. They were alone—for Nora and Jim had gone into temporary eclipse behind a hill and seemed in no hurry to emerge—alone in the sunshine with this wonder that flowed from one to another by shining eyes, by finger touch, and then by meeting lips. He held her close, knew the sweet delight of contact with the supple, surrendered figure, then released her as she drew away in maidenly reserve.
“When shall we be married, Helen? Is the early part of next week too late?” he asked.
Still blushing, she straightened her hat. “That’s ridiculous, sir. I haven’t got used to the thought of you yet.”