The flowers outside the window nodded and swayed in the gentle wind, and a bird whose happy secret lay concealed within reach of her hand, twittered, unafraid, on a swaying bough; and the twilight settled down about her.
When Mrs. Thorpe arose she shook herself free from the memories that had clung about her, and walked out into the semi-darkness. Wholesome and whole-souled, she was little given to retrospection or introspection, but chose to live her life in the fruitful present.
As she neared her home she saw that a light was burning inside.
"It is Jamie," she thought. Dear little Jamie; how many times he had remembered her, and lighted her home and laid her fire.
With a light heart she ascended the steps and entered the house. She glanced through the rooms to the little kitchen, where she expected to see the boy fixing the fire, or laying the table, perhaps.
There was no response from the room beyond, but from a seat near her a man arose and confronted her--a man bronzed and bearded, who showed the impress of mountain life and contact with nature.
The light in the room was dim, but the recognition was instantaneous.
"Evelyn! Evelyn, my wife!" His arms were about her, and she lifted her face to his, as she had done on their bridal morn.
"Evelyn," he whispered, "can you forgive--forgive the wrong--the cruel years?"
She put out her hand and laid it against his face.
"There is nothing to forgive, Maurice--nothing to forgive--love is everything."
"And I have loved you, Evelyn; you have been near me, with me always."