His eye fell on the manuscript lying on the floor, and he began to wonder what it was in the poem that had told her, and how much it had told. She had said nothing of that. He interrupted her: “How⁠—how did you guess?” He jerked his head at the paper.

She told him. And as she went again through that terrible process in her mind, that other thought returned, that idle notion about the wooing in the castle, which she had flung away from her.

She said, faltering and slow, her lips trembling, “Stephen⁠—there’s nothing else in it⁠ ⁠… is there?⁠ ⁠… I ought to have guessed?⁠—Stephen, you do love me⁠—don’t you?” She stepped uncertainly towards him, and then with a loud cry, “Darling, I do !” he caught her to him. And she knew that it was true.