I nodded, smiling up to his bending face. "Yes, I knew it, darling," I said; "that's why I chose it, Gordon."
I know not why it was--I suppose no one could explain it--but the dawn came to us, and the darkness rolled away, in that blessed hour. Tears came at last to Gordon; slowly at first; then in copious flow; then in a gush of feeling that wrung his whole form till it shook and sobbed like the frame of a little child. Passionately he held me, his kisses falling on my lips while he murmured such words of love as the days of courtship had never heard.
"It was like this before," he cried, pointing to the radiant sea; "the moon shone on it, just like this. And we were so happy then, darling--we didn't know of the long years, with their care and sorrow, that stretched before us. And you've been so good, Helen, so true and faithful--and so brave; whatever I've done, or been, I owe to you, my darling," and through all the gust of passion his voice had a naturalness, his eye a new-found calm, that told me the long dark night was past.
"We were so happy then, weren't we, dear?" he said again after a little stillness.
"I'm happier now," I answered, nestling in.
"Why?" he exclaimed. Then, suddenly discerning: "I know why--it's because we have the children now. Isn't that why, Helen--isn't it Dorothy and Harold?"
I told him Yes; and the fancy, if it can so be called, seemed to help and comfort him. "Yes," he said musingly, "it's wonderful, isn't it, how we could have been happy then at all--when we didn't have them. But God gave them to us, didn't He, Helen?"
"Yes," I murmured, my face hidden; "yes, God gave them."
"And they're still His to give," he went on, a great peace in his voice such as it thrilled my soul to feel; "they're still His to give. And I know--I'm almost sure--that He'll give us Harold back again. Something tells me that it's coming near; I knew it when I looked out on the water--when the dark fled before the light that flooded it. Don't you think so, my darling?"
I forget just what my answer was; but we sat long, soothing and comforting each other, drinking deep from Memory's spring. By and by Gordon fell asleep with his head resting on my arm, the moonlight still playing on the pure and lovely features as we sat by the open window. I brooded above him, thanking God for the change I could see upon the care-worn face. The tide had turned, the reaction had come at last, the strife of battle seemed spent and gone. All night long he slept the sleep of a little child; the morning found him bright and tranquil, and his first waking word was to say that he was well.
