She was happy in his arms, content to rest there, to
feel his heart beating against hers, to be quit of all the
uncertainties, all the useless regrets. By a roundabout way she had come
to her own, and it thrilled her to her finger tips. She could not quite
comprehend it, or herself. But she was glad, weeping with gladness,
straining her man to her, kissing his face, murmuring incoherent words
against his breast.
"And so--and so, after all, you do care." Fyfe held her off a little
from him, his sinewy fingers gripping gently the soft flesh of her arms.
"And you were big enough to come back. Oh, my dear, you don't know what
that means to me. I'm broke, and I'd just about reached the point where
I didn't give a damn. This fire has cleaned me out. I've--"
"I know," Stella interrupted. "That's why I came back. I wouldn't have
come otherwise, at least not for a long time--perhaps never. It seemed
as if I ought to--as if it were the least I could do. Of course, it
looks altogether different, now that I know I really want to. But you
see I didn't know that for sure until I saw you standing here. Oh, Jack,
there's such a lot I wish I could wipe out."
"It's wiped out," he said happily. "The slate's clean. Fair weather
didn't get us anywhere. It took a storm. Well, the storm's over."
She stirred uneasily in his arms.
"Haven't you got the least bit of resentment, Jack, for all this trouble
I've helped to bring about?" she faltered.
"Why, no" he said thoughtfully.
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