, nobody cared. But now it's
different. I can see it by the way the wives of the men look at us. I
wonder do women resent the fact that virtue is only its own reward--they
are so down on those who stray. Well, we don't care anyway. We'll marry
and live our lives. But there are other reasons."

"Yes?"

"Yes. Garry talks of coming out. You wouldn't like him to find us living
like this--without benefit of the clergy?"

"Not for the world!" she cried, in alarm.

"Well, he won't. Garry's old-fashioned and terribly conventional, but
you'll take to him at once. There's a wonderful charm about him. He's so
good-looking, yet so clever. I think he could win any woman if he tried,
only he's too upright and sincere."

"What will he think of me, I wonder, poor, ignorant me? I believe I'm
afraid of him. I wish he'd stay away and leave us alone. Yet for your
sake, dear, I do wish him to think well of me."

"Don't fear, Berna. He'll be proud of you. But there's a second reason."

"What?"

I drew her up beside me on the great Morris-chair.

"Oh, my beloved! perhaps we'll not always be alone as we are now.
Perhaps, perhaps some day there will be others--little ones--for their
sakes."

She did not speak. I could feel her nestle closer to me. Her cheek was
pressed to mine; her hair brushed my brow and her lips were like
rose-petals on my own. So we sat there in the big, deep chair, in the
glow of the open fire, silent, dreaming, and I saw on her lashes the
glimmer of a glorious tear.

"Why do you cry, beloved?"

"Because I'm so happy. I never thought I could be so happy. I want it to
last forever, I never want to leave this little cabin of ours. It will
always be home to me. I love it; oh, how I love it!--every stick and
stone of it! This dear little room--there will never be another like it
in the world. Some day we may have a fine home, but I think I'll always
leave some of my heart here in the little cabin."

I kissed away her tears. Foolish tears! I blessed her for them. I held
her closer to me. I was wondrous happy. No longer did the shadow of the
past hang over us. Even as children forget, were we forgetting. Outside
the winter's day was waning fast. The ruddy firelight danced around us.
It flickered on the walls, the open piano, the glass front of the
bookcase. It lit up the Indian corner, the lounge with its cushions and
brass reading-lamp, the rack of music, the pictures, the lace curtains,
the gleaming little bit