Looking into his eyes, her own eyes brilliant as stars, she slowly tore
the letter to bits and scattered the snowy fragments upon the grass.
"A woman does know," she said; "knows without reading what some other
woman writes. I do not need her words, Big Boy. I know of my own heart.
I knew long ago. I listened too readily to others. I have listened to my
own love since. I have been waiting for you to come."
After another silence which needed no words to interpret it, he rose and
lifted her to her feet. With his arm about her he walked to his horse.
He mounted and drew her up, and she clung to him, as maid to knight.
"So, to your father now," he told her.
"But not to speak to him harshly," she said, a ripple of merriment in
her voice, "for I'll tell you a secret. He did not try to stop me when I
ran away--he even called after me, 'He's turned in at the church, you
wild banshee!' They have told him things that have given him new
respect for Harlan Thornton. But your grandfather?"
"He has learned that my love is my own affair, along with my politics.
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