he table. He continued to light candles until
the sputtering glow of half a dozen of them filled the room. It was a
wretched wastefulness, but it was also a moment in which he felt
himself fighting to get hold of himself properly. And he felt also the
desire to be prodigal about something. When he had lighted his sixth
candle, and then faced Celie, she was standing near the table looking
at him so quietly and so calmly and with such a wonderful faith in her
eyes that he thanked God devoutly he had kissed her only once--just
that once! It was a thrilling thought to know that SHE knew he loved
her. There was no doubt of it now. And the thought of what he might
have done in that darkness and in the moment of her helplessness
sickened him. He could look her straight in the eyes now--unashamed and
glad. And she was unashamed, even if a little flushed at what had
happened. The same thought was in their minds--and he knew that she was
not sorry. Her eyes and the quivering tremble of a smile on her lips
told him that. She had braided her hair in that interval when she had
gone to her room, and the braid had fallen over her breast and lay
there shimmering softly in the candle-glow. He wanted to take her in
his arms again. He wanted to kiss her on the mouth and eyes. But
instead of that he took the silken braid gently in his two hands and
crushed it against his lips.

"I love you," he cried softly. "I love you."

He stood for a moment or two with his head bowed, the thrill of her
hair against his face. It was as if he was receiving some kind of a
wonderful benediction. And then in a voice that trembled a little she
spoke to him. Before he could see fully what was in her eyes she turned
suddenly to the wall, took down his coat, and hung it over the window.
When he saw her face again it was gloriously flushed. She pointed to
the candles.

"No danger of that," he said, comprehending her. "They won't throw any
javelins in this storm. Listen!"

It was the wolves again. In a moment their cry was drowned in a crash
of the storm that smote the cabin like a huge hand. Again it was
wailing over them in a wild orgy of almost human tumult. He could see
its swift effect on Celie in spite of her splendid courage. It was not
like the surge of mere wind or the roll of thunder. Again he was
inspired by thought of his pocket atlas, and opened it at the large
insert map of Canada.

"I'll show you why the wind does that," he explained to her,