night you cried over the dead swallows. Don't you think it is time you should begin to return a little of my feeling?"
She took the fingers from her chin and held them under her hands.
"I was very angry at you last week, Humphrey, because I thought you were trifling. I have not been so angry since old Sal's boys killed the swallows; and when I found you had been telling me the truth after all,—I—well I was sorry about it,—and then when you came out through the fire and were burned and nearly blinded, I began then to—to know-" Here a sob came and choked off the rest.
Humphrey gathered the little figure close to him in speechless joy, kissing the half hidden face, the tiny ear, and soft rings of hair about it.
"You dear stupid! You did not know how near I came to crying over you while I was helping to bind up your burns. Did you?"
"You darling! If I am dear, I am content to be stupid. Was that why you wanted to cry over me?"
"No."
"Is that the reason you cried now?"
"No! Humphrey, if you grow stupider you will not be more dear,"—drawing back with dignity,—"and I never, never would have forgiven you about Annie Drew if you had denied it, and had not told me about it yourself. Now we will never mention her again."
The clear, innocent eyes and red lips came very close, as soft arms crept slowly around his neck, and all further explanation was unnecessary.
All things else about them but the murmuring brook seemed but types of desolation and despair,—a vast Doré landscape of black and gray, hopeless, still, mystic, awful.
In their hearts and happy eyes was the love that achieves all things worthy, and in the voice of the brook was the hope and steadfastness of the world that makes love possible.
Quien.
