Usually when he did that Joy made some struggle to escape. But
tonight, in the firelight, a little tired and very glad to see him,
she kissed him back, as if she were veritably his.
He dropped on one knee beside the blaze, drawing her down on the
hearth-rug by him.
"I feel like the man in the fairy-stories," he said in a voice Joy
did not quite know, "who catches an elf-girl in some unfair way, and
finds her turn to a dear human woman in his house. Joy ... will she
stay human?"
Joy's heart beat furiously as she knelt there, held close to his
side. The little head with its great coil of glittering hair drooped.
"She--she always was human," she half whispered, her throat
tightening with excitement. She could feel the blood stealing up
over her face.
"That is no answer, Joy, my dear," he said softly.
But it was at this moment that a voice behind the curtains said,
"Dinner is served."
Joy sprang up, but John stayed where he was, his broad shoulders and
fair head bent a little forward as he looked into the blaze.
She touched his arm timidly.
"John--please--you must go up and see your mother before dinner."
He roused himself from whatever he had been thinking of and turned
to her.
"I must, certainly," he replied, springing up. "I think I am
answered.... Am I not, dear?"
"Why, yes," said Joy with a little surprise, but as gently and
confidently as ever. "I answered you. I always do what you tell me,
don't I?"
He touched her hair lightly and smiled for an answer as he passed
her on his way up.
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