The
sad-faced ghosts peeped out at her from the broken windows of the little
silent houses.
She wondered later why she had not been surprised to see him. But at the
time it seemed to be in the order of things that she should look up and
find him there.
She went to him with outstretched arms.
"I'm so glad you've come," she said. "I was just wanting you."
They sat on the stone step of the fountain, where they were sheltered
from the wind; and she buttoned his long coat about him.
"Do you think you will go on doing it?" he asked, with a laugh.
"I'm so afraid," she answered gravely. "That I shall come to love you
too much: the home, the children and you. I shall have none left over."
"There is an old Hindoo proverb," he said: "That when a man and woman
love they dig a fountain down to God."
"This poor, little choked-up thing," he said, "against which we are
sitting; it's for want of men and women drawing water, of children
dabbling their hands in it and making themselves all wet, that it has run
dry."
She took his hands in hers to keep them warm.
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