the light leaped, so did smiles of
quiet happiness flit over her beautiful face, the merriment of the joyous
flames being reflected in ever-changing dimples.

At first I was a little disconcerted whenever my eyes took note of her
shroud, and there came a momentary regret that the weather had not been
again bad, so that there might have been compulsion for her putting on
another garment--anything lacking the loathsomeness of that pitiful
wrapping. Little by little, however, this feeling disappeared, and I
found no matter for even dissatisfaction in her wrapping. Indeed, my
thoughts found inward voice before the subject was dismissed from my
mind:

"One becomes accustomed to anything--even a shroud!" But the thought was
followed by a submerging wave of pity that she should have had such a
dreadful experience.

By-and-by we seemed both to forget everything--I know I did--except that
we were man and woman, and close together. The strangeness of the
situation and the circumstances did not seem of moment--not worth even a
passing thought. We still sat apart and said little, if anything. I
cannot recall a single word that either of us spoke whilst we sat before
the fire, but other language than speech came into play; the eyes told
their own story, as eyes can do, and more eloquently than lips whilst
exercising their function of speech. Question and answer followed each
other in this satisfying language, and with an unspeakable rapture I
began to realize that my affection was returned. Under these
circumstances it was unrealizable that there should be any incongruity in
the whole affair. I was not myself in the mood of questioning. I was
diffident with that diffidence which comes alone from true love, as
though it were a necessary emanation from that delightful and
overwhelming and commanding passion. In her presence there seemed to
surge up within me that which forbade speech. Speech under present
conditions would have seemed to me unnecessary, imperfect, and even
vulgarly overt. She, too, was silent. But now that I am alone, and
memory is alone with me, I am convinced that she also had been happy.
No, not that exactly. "Happiness" is not the word to describe either her
feeling or my own. Happiness is more active, a more conscious enjoyment.
We had been content. That expresses our condition perfectly; and now
that I can analyze my own feeling, and understand what the word implies,
I am satisfied of its accu