"Then I don't ever want to be any place where you aren't," she told him.
"Miggy!" Peter cried, "take care what you say. Remember—he'd live with us."
She made her three little nods.
"So he will," she answered, "so he will. He—and my little sister—and all of us."
Peter's answer was a shout.
"Say it out!" he cried, "say you will. Miggy! I've got to hear you say it out!"
"Peter, Peter," she said, "I want to marry you."
He took her in his arms and in the room was the glory upon glory of the west, a thing of wings and doors ajar. And strong as the light, there prevailed about them the soul of the Family, that distributes burdens, shares responsibilities, accepts what is and what is to come. Its voice was in the voice of Little Child singing in the garden, and of old Cary babbling at the gate. Its heart was the need of Peter and Miggy, each for the other. I saw in their faces the fine freedoms of the sunset, that sunset where Miggy and Little Child and I had agreed that a certain spirit lives. And it did but tally with the momentous utterance of these things and of the evening when Miggy spoke again.
"Go now—you go to him," she said, "we'll wait. And—Peter—when you come back, I want to see everything in the room again."