THE STEADFAST HEART
kissed her. It was the first time he had ever kissed a woman….
Now he struggled to find words—the right words—humble, grateful, wondering words. No human tongue could have expressed the wonder and the joy of his realization. “Lydia—I have wanted you. I have loved you, without hoping anything…. I can never—tell you how much I have wanted you….”
“You did tell me, Angus…. I knew—or I could never, never have come—like this…. I am ashamed.”
“It was—beautiful,” he said and paused to marvel at the beauty of it. Then, “Are you sure, Lydia, sure you want me?”
“If you want me to want you, Angus.”
He faltered, and she loved his faltering, his lack of readiness, his reverence for her, “I—Lydia—Lydia—it’s true? You love me?… You remember everything, who I am, all that has happened—and you love me?”
“Yes, Angus.”
He fell silent again, but the moonlight, filtering dimly through the leaves, showed her his face…. It was eloquent; on it was reflected a great, deep, wonderful poem…. She touched his face softly with her fingers.
“I’ll make it all up to you…. I’ll make up for all the—the unhappiness,” she said. “Oh,
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