"And," said I, "unless I'm very much mistaken, in the same way that all the ancient lovers loved their ladies, Peter loves you."
"That way?" said Miggy, laying her hand on the manuscript.
"That way," said I. And a very good way it was, too.
Miggy put up both hands with a manner of pointing at herself.
"Oh, no," she said, "not me." Then her little shoulders went up and she caught her breath like a child. "Honest?" she said.
I said no more, but sat silent for a little, watching her across the fallen manuscript of ancient romances. Presently I picked up the sheets, and by chance my look fell on the very thing for which we had been searching: the story of the wife of Kiala, a Wisconsin Indian chief who was sold into slavery and carried to Martinique. And alone, across those hundreds of miles of pathless snow and sea, the wife of Kiala somehow followed him to the door of his West Indian owner. And to him she gave herself into slavery so that she might be with her husband.
I read the story to Miggy. And because the story is true, and because it happened so near and because of this universe in general, I was not able to read it quite so tranquilly as I should have wished.
"Oh," Miggy said, "is it like that?"
Yes, please God; if the heart is big enough to hold it, it is like that.