LOVE-MAKING.
A dismal March afternoon, an earth hard as iron, with black frost, a
wild wind troubling the gaunt trees, and howling mournfully around the
old house. A desolate, wintry afternoon, threatening storm; but despite
its ominous aspect, the young people at Danton Hall had gone off for a
long sleigh-ride. Reginald and Kate had the little shell-shaped cutter,
Rose, Eeny, Mr. Howard, Junior, Miss Howard, and Doctor Frank, in the
big three-seated family sleigh. Amid the jingling of silvery bells,
peals of girlish laughter, and a chorus of good-byes to the Captain and
Grace, standing on the stone stoop, they had departed.
Captain Danton and his housekeeper spent the bleak March afternoon very
comfortably together. The fire burned brightly, the parlour was like
waxwork in its perfect order; Grace, with her sewing, sat by her
favourite window. Captain Danton, with the Montreal _True Witness_, sat
opposite, reading her the news. Grace was not very profoundly interested
in the political questions then disturbing Canada, or in the doings and
sayings of the Canadian Legislature; but she listened with a look of
pleased attention to all. Presently the Captain laid down the newspaper
and looked out.
"The girls and boys will be caught in the storm, as I told them they
would. You and I were wisest, Grace, to stay at home."
Grace smiled and folded up her work.
"Where are you going?" asked the Captain.
"To get the remainder of this embroidery from Agnes Darling. Do you know
what it is?"
"How should I?"
"Well, then, it is a part of Miss Kate's bridal outfit. June will soon
be here, although to-day does not look much like it."
She went out and descended to the sewing-room. All alone, and sitting by
the window, her needle flying rapidly, was the pale seamstress.
"Have you finished those bands, Miss Darling? Ah, I see you have and
very nicely. I am ready for them, and will take them upstairs. Are these
the sleeves you are working on?"
Miss Darling replied in the affirmative, and Grace turned to depart. On
the threshold she paused.
"You don't look very well, Miss Darling," she said, kindly; "don't work
too late. There is no hurry with the things."
She returned to the parlour, where Captain Danton, who had become very
fond of his housekeeper's society of late, still sat. And Agnes Darling,
alone in the cosy little sewing-room, worked busily while the light
lasted. When it grew too dark for the fine embroidery, she dropped it in
her lap, and looked out at the wintry prospect.
The storm that had been threatening all day was rising fast. The wind
had increased to a gale, and shook the windows and doors, and worried
the trees, and went shrieking off over the bleak marshes, to a wild gulf
and rushing river. Great snowflakes fluttered through the leaden air,
faster and faster, and faster, until presently all was lost in a dizzy
cloud of falling whiteness. A wild and desolate evening, making the
pleasant little room, with its rosy fire, and carpet, and pretty
furniture, tenfold pleasanter by contrast. A bleak and terrible evening
for all wayfarers--bitterly cold, and darkening fast.
The seamstress sat while the dismal daylight faded drearily out, her
hands lying idly in her lap, her great, melancholy dark eyes fixed on
the fast-falling snow. The tokens of sickness and sorrow lingered more
marked than ever in that wasted form and colourless face, and the ruddy
glow of the fire-light flickered on her mourning dress. Weary and
lonely, she looked as the dying day.
Presently, above the shrieking of the stormy wind, came another
sound--the loud jingling of sleigh-bells. Dimly through the fluttering
whiteness of the snow-storm she saw the sleighs whirl up to the door,
and their occupants, in a tumult of laughter, hurrying rapidly into the
house. She could hear those merry laughs, those feminine tones, and the
pattering of gaitered feet up the stairs. She could hear the deeper
voices of the gentlemen, as they stamped and shook the snow off their
hats and great-coats in the hall. She listened and looked out again at
the wintry twilight.
"Oh!" she thought, with weary sadness, "what happy people there are in
the world! Women who love and are beloved, who have everything their
hearts desire--home, and friends, and youth, and hope, and happiness.
Women who scarcely know, even by hearsay, of such wretched castaways as
I."
She walked from the window to the fire, and, leaning against the mantel,
fixed her eyes on the flickering flame.
"My birthday," she said to herself, "this long, lonesome, desolate day.
Desolate as my lost life, as my dead heart. Only two-and twenty, and all
that makes life worth having, gone already."
Again she walked to the window. Far away, and pale and dim through the
drifting snow, she could see the low-lying sky.
"Not all!" was the better thought that came to her in her
bitterness--"not all, but oh! how far away the land of rest looks!"
She leaned against the window, as she had leaned against the mantel, and
took from her bosom the locket she always wore.
"This day twelvemonth he gave me this--his birthday gift. Oh, my
darling! My husband! where in all the wide world are you this stormy
night?"
There was a rap at the door. She thrust the locket again in her bosom,
choked back the hysterical passion of tears rising in her heart, crossed
the room, and opened the door. Her visitor was Doctor Danton.
"I thought I should find you here," he said, entering.
"How are you to-day, Miss Darling? Not very well, as your face plainly
testifies; give me your hand--cold as ice! My dear child, what is the
trouble now?"
At the kindness of his tone she broke down suddenly. She had been alone
so long brooding in solitude over her troubles, that she had grown
hysterical. It wanted but that kindly voice and look to open the closed
flood-gates of her heart. She covered her face with her hands, and broke
out into a passionate fit of crying.
Doctor Frank led her gently to a seat, and stood leaning against the
chimney, looking into the dying fire, and not speaking. The hysterics
would pass, he knew, if she were let alone; and when the sobbing grew
less violent, he spoke.
"You sit alone too much," he said quietly; "it is not good for you. You
must give it up, or you will break down altogether."
"Forgive me," said Agnes, trying to choke back the sobs. "I am weak and
miserable, and cannot help it. I did not mean to cry now."
"You are alone too much," repeated the Doctor; "it won't do. You think
too much of the past, and despond too much in the present. That won't do
either. You must give it up."
His calm, authoritative tone soothed her somehow. The tears fell less
hotly, and she lifted her poor, pale face.
"I am very foolish, but it is my birthday, and I could not help--"
She broke down again.
"It all comes of being so much alone," repeated Doctor Frank. "It won't
do. Agnes, how often must I tell you so? Do you know what they say of
you in the house?"
"No," looking up in quick alarm.
"They accuse you of having something on your mind. The servants look at
you with suspicion, and it all comes of your love of solitude, your
silence and sadness. Give it up, Agnes, give it up."
"Doctor Danton," she cried, piteously, "what can I do? I am the most
unhappy woman in all the world. What can I do?"
"There is no need of you being the most unhappy woman in the world;
there is no need of your being unhappy at all."
She looked up at him in white, voiceless appeal, her lips and hands
trembling.
"Don't excite yourself--don't be agitated. I have no news for you but I
think I may bid you hope with safety. I don't think it was a ghost you
saw that night."
She gave a little cry, and then sat white and still, waiting.
"I don't think it was a ghost," he repeated, lowering his voice. "I
don't think he is dead."
She did not speak; she only sat looking up at him with that white, still
face.
"There is no need of your wearing a widow's weeds, Agnes," he said,
touching her black dress; "I believe your husband to be alive."
She never spoke. If her life had depended on it, she could not have
uttered a word--could not have removed her eyes from his face.
"I have no positive proof of what I say, but a conviction that is equal
to any proof in my own mind. I believe your husband to be alive--I
believe him to be an inmate of this very house."
He stopped in alarm. She had fallen back in her chair, the bluish pallor
of death overspreading her face.
"I should have prepared you better," he said. "The shock was too sudden.
Shall I go for a glass of water?"
She made a slight motion in the negative, and whispered the word,
"Wait!"
A few moments' struggle with her fluttering breath, and then she was
able to sit up.
"Are you better again? Shall I go for the water?"
"No, no! Tell me--"
She could not finish the sentence.
"I have no positive proof," said Doctor Danton, "but the strongest
internal conviction. I believe your husband to be in hiding in this
house. I believe you saw him that night, and no spirit."
"Go on, go on!" she gasped.
"You have heard of Mr. Richards, the invalid, shut upstairs, have you
not? Yes. Well, that mysterious individual is your husband."
She rose up and stood by him, white as death.
"Are you sure?"
"Morally, yes. As I told you, I have no proof as yet and I should not
have told you so soon had I not seen you dying by inches before my eyes.
Can you keep up heart now, little despondent?"
She clasped her hands over that wildly-throbbing heart, still not quite
sure that she heard aright.
"You are to keep all this a profound secret," said the Doctor, "until I
can make my suspicions certainties. They say women cannot keep a
secret--is it true?"
"I will do whatever you tell me. Oh, thank Heaven! thank Heaven for
this!"
She had found her voice, and the hysterics threatened again. Doctor
Danton held up an authoritative finger.
"Don't!" he said imperatively. "I won't have it! No more crying, or I
shall take back all I have said. Tell a woman good news, and she cries;
tell her bad news, and she does the same. How is a man to manage them?"
He walked across the room, and looked out at the night, revolving that
profound question in his man's brain, and so unable to solve the enigma
as the thousands of his brethren who have perplexed themselves over the
same question before. After staring a moment at the blinding whirl of
snow he returned to the seamstress.
"Are you all right again, and ready to listen to me?"
Her answer was a question.
"How have you found this out?"
"I haven't found it out. I have only my own suspicions--very strong
ones, though."
A shadow of doubt saddened and darkened her face. Her clasped hands
drooped and fell.
"Only a suspicion, after all! I am afraid to hope, seems so unreal, so
improbable. If it were Harry, why should he be here? Why should Captain
Danton protect and shield him?"
"That is what I am coming to. You knew very little of your husband
before you married him. Are you sure he did not marry you under an
assumed name?"
A flash of colour darted across her colourless face at the words. Doctor
Danton saw it.
"Are you sure Darling was your husband's name?" he reiterated,
emphatically.
"I am not sure," she said faintly. "I have reason to think it was not."
"Do you know what his name was?"
"No."
"Then I do. I think his name was Danton."
"Danton!"
"Henry Richard Danton--Captain Danton's only son."
She looked at him in breathless wonder.
"Captain Danton's only son," went on the Doctor. "You have not lived all
these months in this house without knowing that Captain Danton had a
son?"
"I have heard it."
"Three years ago this son ran away from home, and went to New York,
under an assumed name. Three years ago Henry Darling came first to New
York from Canada. Henry Darling commits a crime, and flies. A few months
after Captain Danton comes here, with a mysterious invalid, who is never
seen, who is too ill to leave his room by day, but quite able to go out
for midnight rambles in the grounds. Old Margery has known Captain
Danton's son from childhood. She sees Mr. Richards returning from one of
those midnight walks, and falls down in a fit. She says she has seen
Master Harry's ghost--Master Harry being currently believed to be dead.
Shortly after, you see Mr. Richards on a like occasion, and you fall
down in a fit. You say you have seen the apparition of your husband,
Henry Darling. Putting all this together, and adding it up, what does it
come to? Are you good at figures?"
She could not answer him. The ungovernable astonishment of hearing what
she had heard, struck her speechless once more.
"Don't take the trouble to speak," said Doctor Frank, "my news has
stunned you. I shall leave you to think it all over by yourself, and I
trust there will be an end of tears and melancholy faces. It is ever
darkest before the day dawns. Good-evening!"
He was going, but she laid her hand on his arm.
"Wait a moment," she said, finding her voice. "I am so confused and
bewildered that I hardly understand what you have said. But should it
all be true--you know--you know--" averting her face, "he believes me
guilty!"
"We will undeceive him; I can give him proofs, 'strong as Holy Writ;'
and, if he loves you, he will be open to conviction. All will come right
after a while; only have patience and wait. Keep up a good heart, my
dear child, and trust in God."
She dropped feebly into a chair, looking with a bewildered face at the
fire.
"I can't realize it," she murmured. "It is like a scene in a novel. I
can't realize it."
She heard the door close behind Doctor Frank--she heard a girlish voice
accost him in the hall. It was Miss Rose, in a rustling silk
dinner-dress, with laces, and ribbons, and jewels fluttering and
sparkling about her.
"Is Agnes Darling in there?" she asked suspiciously.
"Yes. I have just been making a professional call."
"Professional! I thought she was well."
"Getting well, my dear Miss Rose; getting well, I am happy to say. It is
the duty of a conscientious physician to see after his patients until
they are perfectly recovered."
"I wonder if conscientious physicians find the duty more binding in the
case of young and pretty patients than in that of old and ugly ones?"
"No," said Doctor Frank, impressively. "To professional eyes, the
suffering fellow-creature is a suffering fellow-creature, and nothing
more. Think better of us, my dear girl; think better of me."
After dinner, in the drawing-room, Captain Danton, with Grace for a
partner, the Doctor with Eeny, sat down to a game of cards. Kate sat at
the piano, singing a fly-away duet with Miss Howard. Mr. Howard stood at
Miss Danton's right elbow devotedly turning the music; and in a little
cozy velvet sofa, just big enough for two, Reginald and Rose were
tête-à-tête.
In the changed days that came after, Doctor Frank remembered that
picture--the exquisite face at the piano, the slender and stately form,
the handsome man, and the pretty coquette on the sofa. The song sung
that night brought the tableau as vividly before him years and years
after, as when he saw it then.
The song was ended. Miss Danton's ringed white fingers were flying over
the keys in a brilliant waltz. George Howard and Rose were floating
round and round, in air, as it seemed, and Stanford was watching with
half-closed eyes. And in the midst of all, above the ringing music and
the sighing of the wild wind, there came the clanging of sleigh-bells
and a loud ring at the house-door. Rose and George Howard ceased their
waltz. Kate's flying fingers stopped. The card-party looked up
inquisitively.
"Who can it be," said the Captain, "'who knocks so loud, and knocks so
late,' this stormy night?"
The servant who threw open the drawing-room door answered him. "M. La
Touche," announced Babette, and vanished.
There was a little cry of astonishment from Rose; an instant's
irresolute pause. Captain Danton arose. The name was familiar to him
from his daughter. But Rose had recovered herself before he could
advance, and came forward, her pretty face flushed.
"Where on earth did you drop from?" she asked, composedly shaking hands
with him. "Did you snow down from Ottawa?"
"No," said M. La Touche. "I've snowed down from Laprairie. I came from
Montreal in this evening's train, and drove up here, in spite of wind
and weather."
Captain Danton came forward; and Rose, still a little confused,
presented M. La Touche. The cordial Captain shook with his usual
heartiness the proffered hand of the young man, bade him welcome, and
put an instant veto on his leaving them that night.
"There are plenty of bedrooms here, and it is not a night to turn an
enemy's dog from the door. My cousin, Miss Grace Danton, M. La Touche;
my daughter, Eveleen; and Doctor Frank Danton."
M. La Touche bowed with native grace to these off-hand introductions,
and then was led off by Rose to the piano-corner, to be duly presented
there. She had not made up her mind yet whether she were vexed or
pleased to see her lover. Whatever little affection she had ever given
him--and it must have been of the flimsiest from the first--had
evaporated long ago, like smoke. But Rose had no idea of pining in
maiden solitude, even if she lost the fascinating Reginald, and she knew
that homely old saw about coming to the ground between two stools.
M. La Touche had the good fortune to produce a pleasing impression upon
all to whom he was introduced. He was very good-looking, with dark
Canadian eyes and hair, and olive skin. He was rather small and slight,
and his large dark eyes were dreamy, and his smile as gentle as a
girl's.
Mr. Stanford, resigned his place on the sofa to M. La Touche, and Rose
and the young Canadian were soon chattering busily in French.
"Why did you not write and tell me you were coming?"
"Because I did not know I was coming. Rose, I am the luckiest fellow
alive!"
His dark eyes sparkled; his olive face flushed. Rose looked at him
wonderingly.
"How?"
"I have had a fortune left me. I am a rich man, and I have come here to
tell you, my darling Rose."
"A fortune!" repeated Rose, opening her brown eyes.
"Yes, _m'amour_! You have heard me speak of my uncle in Laprairie, who
is very rich? Well, he is dead, and has left all he possesses to me."
Rose clasped her hands.
"And how much is it?"
"Forty thousand pounds!"
"Forty thousand pounds!" repeated Rose, quite stunned by the magnitude
of the sum.
"Am I not the luckiest fellow in the world?" demanded the young legatee
with exultation. "I don't care for myself alone, Rose, but for you.
There is nothing to prevent our marriage now."
Rose wilted down suddenly, and began fixing her bracelets.
"I shall take a share in the bank with my father," pursued the young
man; "and I shall speak to your father to-morrow for his consent to our
union!"
Rose still twitched her bracelets, her colour coming and going. She
could see Reginald Stanford without looking up; and never had he been so
handsome in her eyes; never had she loved him as she loved him now.
"You say nothing, Rose," said her lover. "_Mon Dieu!_ you cannot surely
love me less!"
"Hush!" said Rose, rather sharply, "they will hear you. It isn't that,
but--but I don't want to be married just yet. I am too young."
"You did not think so at Ottawa."
"Well," said Rose, testily; "I think so now, and that is enough. I can't
get married yet; at least not before July."
"I am satisfied to wait until July," said La Touche, smiling. "No doubt,
you will feel older and wiser by that time."
"Does your father know?" asked Rose.
"Yes, I told him before I left home. They are all delighted. My mother
and sisters send endless love."
Rose remained silent for a moment, thoughtfully twisting her bracelet.
She liked wealth, but she liked Reginald Stanford better than all the
wealth in the world. Jules La Touche, with forty thousand pounds, was
not to be lightly thrown over; but she was ready at any moment to throw
him over for the comparatively poor Englishman. She had no wish to
offend her lover. Should her dearer hopes fail, he would be a most
desirable party.
"What is the matter with you, Rose?" demanded Jules, uneasily. "You are
changed. You are not what you were in Ottawa. Even your letters of late
are not what they used to be. Why is it? What have I done?"
"You foolish fellow," said Rose, smiling, "nothing! I am not changed.
You only fancy it."
"Then I may speak to your father?"
"Wait until to-morrow," said Rose. "I will think of it. You shall have
my answer after breakfast. Now, don't wear that long face--there is
really no occasion."
Rose dutifully lingered by his side all the evening; but she stole more
glances at Kate's lover than she did at her own. Jules La Touche felt
the impalpable change in her; and yet it would have puzzled him to
define it. His nature was gentle and tender, and he loved the pretty,
fickle, rosy beauty with a depth and sincerity of which she was totally
unworthy.
Upstairs, in her room, that night, Rose sat before the fire, toasting
her feet and thinking. Yes, thinking. She was not guilty of it often;
but to-night she was revolving the pros and cons of her own case. If she
refused to let Jules speak to her father, nothing would persuade him
that her love had not died out. He might depart in anger, and she might
lose him forever. That was the very last thing she wished. If she lost
Reginald, it would be some consolation to marry, immediately after, a
richer man. It would be revenge; it would prove how little she cared for
him; it would deprive him of the pleasure of thinking she was pining in
maiden loneliness for him. Then, too, the public announcement of her
engagement and approaching marriage to M. La Touche might arouse him to
the knowledge of how much he loved her. "How blessings brighten as they
take their flight!" and jealousy is infallible to bring dilatory lovers
to the point. No question of the right or wrong of the matter troubled
the second Miss Danton's easy conscience.
On the whole, everything was in favour of M. La Touche's speaking to
papa. Rose resolved he should speak, took off her considering cap, and
went to bed.
M. La Touche was not kept long in suspense next day; he got his answer
before breakfast. The morning was sunny and mild, but the snow lay piled
high on all sides; and Rose, running down stairs some ten minutes before
breakfast-time, found her lover in the open hall door, watching the
snowbirds and smoking a cigar. Rose went up to him with very pretty
shyness, and the young man flung away his cigar, and looked at her
anxiously.
"What a lovely morning," said Rose; "what splendid sleighing we will
have."
"I'm not going to talk of sleighing," said M. La Touche, resolutely.
"You promised me an answer this morning. What is it?"
Rose began playing with her cord and tassels.
"What is it?" reiterated the Canadian. "Yes or No?"
"Yes!"
M. La Touche's anxious countenance turned rapturous, but Miss Grace
Danton was coming down stairs, and he had to be discreet. Grace lingered
a few moments talking of the weather, and Rose took the opportunity of
making her escape.
After breakfast, when the family were dispersing, M. La Touche followed
Captain Danton out of the room, and begged the favour of a private
interview. The Captain looked surprised, but agreed readily, and led the
way to his study, no shadow of the truth dawning on his mind.
That awful ordeal of most successful wooers, "speaking to papa," was
very hard to begin; but M. La Touche, encouraged by the recollection of
the forty thousand pounds, managed to begin somehow. He made his
proposal with a modest diffidence that could not fail to please.
"We have loved each other this long time," said the young man; "but I
never dreamed of speaking to you so soon. I was only a clerk in our
house, and Rose and I looked forward to years of waiting. This legacy,
however, has removed all pecuniary obstacles, and Rose has given me
consent to speak to you."
Imagine the Captain's surprise. His little curly-haired Rose, whom he
looked upon as a tall child, engaged to be married!
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed Captain Danton, naïvely; "you have taken me
completely aback! I give you my word of honour, I never thought of such
a thing!"
"I hope you will not object, sir; I love your daughter most sincerely."
The anxious inquiry was unneeded. Captain Danton had no idea of
objecting. He knew the La Touche family well by repute; he liked this
modest young wooer; and forty thousand pounds for his dowerless daughter
was not to be lightly refused.
"Object!" he cried, grasping his hand. "Not I. If you and Rose love each
other, I am the last one in the world to mar your happiness. Take her,
my lad, with my best wishes for your happiness."
The young Canadian tried to express his gratitude, but broke down at the
first words.
"Never mind," said the Captain, laughing. "Don't try to thank me. Your
father knows, of course?"
"Yes, sir. I spoke to him before I left Ottawa. He and all our family
are delighted with my choice."
"And when is it to be?" asked the Captain, still laughing.
"What?"
"The wedding, of course!"
M. La Touche's dark face reddened like a girl's. "I don't know, sir. We
have not come to that yet."
"Let me help you over the difficulty, then. Make it a double wedding."
"A double wedding?"
"Yes. My daughter Kate is to be married to Mr. Stanford on the fifth of
June. Why not make it a double match."
"With all my heart, sir, if Rose is willing!"
"Go and ask her then. But first, of course, after this, you remain with
us for some time?"
"I can stay a week or two; after that, business will compel me to
leave."
"Well, business must be attended to. Go, speak to Rose, and success to
you!"
Jules found Rose in the drawing-room, and alone. His face told how
eminently satisfactory his interview had been. He sat down beside her,
and related what had passed, ending with her father's proposal.
"Do say yes, Rose," pleaded Jules. "June is as long as I can wait, and I
should like a double wedding of all things."
Rose's face turned scarlet, and she averted her head. The familiar
announcement of Reginald's marriage to her sister, as a matter of
certainty, stung her to the heart.
"You don't object, Rose?" he said uneasily. "You will be married the
same day?"
"Settle it as you like," answered Rose petulantly. "If I must be
married, it doesn't much matter when."
That day, when the ladies were leaving the dinner-table, Captain Danton
arose.
"Wait one moment," he said; "I have a toast to propose before you go.
Fill your glasses and drink long life and prosperity to Mr. and Mrs.
Jules La Touche."
Every one but Grace was electrified, and Rose fairly ran out of the
room. M. La Touche made a modest little speech of thanks, and then Mr.
Stanford held the door open for the ladies to pass.
Rose was not in the drawing-room when they entered, and Kate ran up to
her room; but the door was locked, and Rose would not let her in.
"Go away, Kate," she said, almost passionately. "Go away and leave me
alone."
Rose kept her chamber all the evening, to the amazement of the rest. The
young Canadian was the lion of the hour, and bore his honours with that
retiring modesty which so characterized him, and which made him such a
contrast to the brilliant and self-conscious Mr. Stanford.
Rose descended to the breakfast next morning looking shy and queer.
Before the meal was over, however, the bashfulness, quite foreign to her
usual character, wore pretty well away, and she agreed to join a
sleighing-party over to Richelieu, a neighbouring village.
They were six in all--Kate and Mr. Stanford, Rose and Mr. La Touche,
Eeny and Doctor Frank. Sir Ronald Keith had departed some time
previously, for a tour through the country with Lord Ellerton, and his
memory was a thing of the past already.
The Captain, an hour after their departure, sought out Grace in the
dining-room, where she sat at work. He looked grave and anxious, and,
sitting down beside her, said what he had to say with many misgivings.
"I am double her age," he thought. "I have a son old enough to be her
husband; how can I hope?"
But for all that he talked, and Grace listened, her sewing lying idly in
her lap; one hand shading her face, the other held in his. He talked
long and earnestly, and she listened, silent and with shaded face.
"And now Grace, my dear, you have heard all; what do you say? When I
lose my girls, shall I go back to the old life, or shall I stay? I can't
stay unless you say yes, Grace. I am double your age, but I love you
very dearly, and will do my best to make you happy. My dear, what do you
say?" She looked up at him for the first time, her eyes full of tears.
"Yes!"