silent, watching her.

Anne seems to find one hand sufficient for her cake-making, for the
other rests idly on the table--very near to one of John's, as she
would see were not her eyes so intent upon her work. How the impulse
came to him, where he--grave, sober, business-man John--learnt such
story-book ways can never be known; but in one instant he is down on
both knees, smothering the floury hand with kisses, and the next
moment Anne's arms are round his neck and her lips against his, and
the barrier between them is swept away, and the deep waters of their
love rush together.

With that kiss they enter a new life whereinto one may not follow
them. One thinks it must have been a life made strangely beautiful
by self-forgetfulness, strangely sweet by mutual devotion--a life too
ideal, perhaps, to have remained for long undimmed by the mists of
earth.

They who remember them at that time speak of them in hushed tones, as
one speaks of visions. It would almost seem as though from their
faces in those days there shone a radiance, as though in their voices
dwelt a tenderness beyond the tenderness of man.

They seem never to rest, never to weary. Day and night, through that
little stricken world, they come and go, bearing healing and peace,
till at last the plague, like some gorged beast of prey, slinks
slowly back towards its lair, and men raise their heads and breathe.

One afternoon, returning from a somewhat longer round than usual,
John feels a weariness creeping into his limbs, and quickens his