Then, as it
had been in the morning, Sheba drew herself shyly away.
"They are waiting supper for us," she told him irrelevantly.
He did not shout out his happiness and tell her to let them wait.
For Gordon, too, felt awed at this wonderful adventure of love that had
befallen them. It was enough for him that they were moving side by side,
alone in the deep snows and the biting cold, that waves of emotion
crashed through his pulses when his swinging hand touched hers.
They were acutely conscious of each other. Excitement burned in the eyes
that turned to swift, reluctant meetings. She was a woman, and he was
her lover. Neither of them dared quite accept the fact yet, but it
filled the background of all their thoughts with delight.
Sheba did not want to talk of this new, amazing thing that had come into
her life. It was too sacred a subject to discuss just yet even with him.
So she began to tell him odd fancies from childhood that lingered in her
Celtic heart, tales of the "little folk" that were half memories and
half imaginings, stirred to life by some odd association of sky and
stars. She laughed softly at herself as she told them, but Gordon did
not laugh at her.
Everything she did was for him divinely done.
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