partly because of a heart too full, and partly because speech was so unaccustomed a thing.
"It's been pretty long, dear. How you stood it, I can't see."
"I did begin to think I'd never see you again. But I couldn't let myself think that."
She looked up at his eyes, for the beard was still strange. But all she could say now was:
"My dear, my dear!"
Then she almost broke down. Forgive her, for she had stood up so sturdily through it all. Again he stroked the dark hair.
"But, sweetheart, it's worth the waiting."
There was agreement in her answering kiss. A life may have its sorrows and yet be very fortunate, if it has had its big moments. But that lot which does not number some among its memories, no matter how free from care and smooth the path, is indeed a tragedy.
