Amy could not weep, but gazed, never thinking anything, with all the love and pity, devotion and faith eternal, which are sure to shine in a womanʼs eyes when trouble strikes its light there. How different from the shy maidʼs glance which, only a month or two ago, would have met his youthful overtures! And how infinitely grander! Something of the good All–Fatherʼs power and mercy in it. She kept her eyes upon him. She had no power to move them. And they changed exactly as his did. The pale glance wandering into her gaze, with an appealing submissive motion, eager to settle somewhere, but too faint to ask for sympathy, began to feel its way and fasten, began to quiver with vibrant light and sense of resting somewhere, began to quicken, flush, and deepen—from what fountain God only knows—then to waver and suffuse (in feeble consciousness of grief), retire and return again, fluttering to some remembered home, as a bird in the dark comes to his nest; then to thrill, and beam, and sparkle with the light, the life, the love. So with a weak but joyful cry, like a shipwrecked man at his hearth again, he stretched out both his wasted arms, and Amy was there without knowing it. She laid his white cheek on her shoulder, and let her hair flow over it; she held him up with her own pure breast, till his worn heart beat on her warm one. Then she sobbed, and laughed, and sobbed, and called him her world, and heart, and heaven, and kissed his nestling forehead, and looked, and asked, oh, where the love was. All she begged for was one word, just one little word, if you please, to know who was to come to comfort him. Oh, he must know her—of course he must—wouldnʼt she know him, that was all, though she hadnʼt a breath of life left? His own, his faith, his truth, his love—his own—let him say who, and she never would cry again. Only say it once, his own— “Amy!” “Yes, your Amy, Amy, Amy. Say it again, oh! say it again, my poor everlasting love!” Suddenly the barriers of his frozen grief were loosened. With a feeble arm staying on her, although it could not cling to her, he burst into a flood of tears, from the fountain of great waters whose source and home is God. Then John, who had stood at the door all the time, with his white head bowed on his coat–sleeve, came forward and took a hand of each, knelt by the bed, and gave thanks. They wanted not to talk of it, nor any doctor to tell them. Because they had an angelʼs voice, that God would be gracious to them. “Darlings, didnʼt I tell you,” said Amy, looking up at them, with her rich curls tear–bespangled, like a young grape–leaf in the vinery; “donʼt you know that I was sure our Father would never forsake us; and that even a simple thing like me might fetch back my own blessing? Oh, you never would have loved me so; only God knew it was good for us.”