Without, the deep night paused, gray, impenetrable. Did it hope
that far angel-voices would break its breathless hush, as once on
the fields of Judea, to usher in Christmas morn? A hush, in air,
and earth, and sky, of waiting hope, of a promised joy. Down
there in the farm-window two human hearts had given the joy a
name; the hope throbbed into being; the hearts touching each
other beat in a slow, full chord of love as pure in God's eyes as
the song the angels sang, and as sure a promise of the Christ
that is to come. Forever,--not even death would part them; he
knew that, holding her closer, looking down into her face.
What a pale little face it was! Through the intensest heat of
his passion the sting touched him. Some instinct made her glance
up at him, with a keen insight, seeing the morbid gloom that was
the man's sin, in his face. She lifted her head from his breast,
and when he stooped to touch her lips, shook herself free,
laughing carelessly. Alas, Stephen Holmes! you will have little
time for morbid questionings in those years to come: her cheerful
work has begun: no more self-devouring reveries: your very pauses
of silent content and love will be rare and well-earned. No more
tranced raptures for to-night,--let to-morrow bring what it
would.
"You do not seem to find your purer self altogether perfect?" she
demanded. "I think the pale skin hurts your artistic eye, or the
frozen eyes,--which is it?"
"They have thawed into brilliant fire,-- something looks at me
half-yielding and half-defiant,--you know that, you vain child!
But, Margret, nothing can atone"----
He stopped.
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