Older--greater--a more steady flame--a more conscious power--grief
transmuted to understanding--despair risen to resolution--she had gone a
long way. He looked at her in silence--reading, understanding. It was all
written there--the story of deep thinking and deeper loving, of battles
and victories, and other battles yet to fight, the poise which attends
the victor--yes, she had gone a long way. And as she spoke his name, and
smiled a little, and then could not repress the tears which his presence,
all that it meant, brought, he saw, shining through her tears, that light
of love's own days.
She turned and walked to the other side of the room, and he knew that she
was taking him to the picture.
She watched his face as he took it in, and she knew then that she had
done her work.
For a long time he said nothing, and when at last he turned to her, eyes
dim, voice husky, it was only to say: "I can say--nothing. There are--no
words."
He turned back to the picture, she standing silent beside him, reading in
his face that with each moment he was coming into more perfect
understanding.
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