They sat down presently on the window-seat, and he told her of the things he had thought as he rode that morning—of her mother and of the contrast between their Christmas day last year and this.
And Hildegarde said, when he had finished, "It's because you knew mother that—that you mean so much to me, Crispin."
It was not all he had hoped for, but it was at least something. He said quietly: "I want to help if I can. You must always remember that. Whenever you are in trouble, I wish you might come here and look out of this window and wave a thought to me. I'll try to answer. No matter where I am, I think I shall know."
She looked up at him. "Do you think you would, really?"
"Know that you were unhappy? I think I should. Such things are not impossible."
To their youth it did not seem impossible that heart could speak to heart across the miles. They were very much in earnest, and things of the spirit were as real to them as things of the body.
And now there was a stir in the house, servants passing to and fro in the lower hall, voices in the hall above them.
"I don't want to see anybody just now," Hildegarde said, "so I'll run along." She laid her hand on her lover's arm. "You've been such a help, Crispin."
After she left him, Crispin unlatched the window and leaned on the sill. Far below against the sapphire background was the silver sweep of the snow. Everything glittered. And the wind sang, "You've been such a help, Crispin . . . you mean so much to me."
