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Her tenderest, deepest thoughts were not of the wonders
and beauties she had seen; they were of the dreams within, of the holy
happiness of first knowledge, and then the grief in giving up the much
desired, which she had known only in anticipation. The most cherished
memories of their love were memories of those days in which he had
comforted her, of the tenderness with which he had consoled, the strength
with which he had upheld. Those hours had reached far into her soul,
deepening it, giving her, as if in compensation, new channels for love,
new understanding of those innermost things of life. But in those first
days, even while the soul of the woman was deepening, the bruised heart
was as the heart of a child. It was as a child she had been to him in
those days, and he had comforted her as one would comfort an idolised
child, whose hurt one strove to take wholly unto one's self. The memory
of those hours knit them together as no other thing could have done.
Looking down at her face now he saw that look he had come to know--that
far-away, frightened, wistful look.


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