"I can't tell you what they were to me," he said, "for she and I found
each other then, and we both felt we had missed each other so much and
so long. She was happy then, and I, too. And now everything has
been taken from her, and still, in spite of that, my cup is full to
overflowing."
"That's how she would have it, Michael," said Barbara.
"Yes, I know that. I remind myself of that."
Again he paused.
"They don't think she will live very long," he said. "She is getting
physically much weaker. But during this last week or two she has been
less unhappy, they think. They say some new change may come any time:
it may be only the great change--I mean her death; but it is possible
before that that her mind will clear again. Sir James told me that
occasionally happened, like--like a ray of sunlight after a stormy day.
It would be good if that happened. I would give almost anything to feel
that she and I were together again, as we were."
Barbara, childless, felt something of motherhood. Michael's simplicity
and his sincerity were already known to her, but she had never yet
known the strength of him. You could lean on Michael. In his quiet,
undemonstrative way he supported you completely, as a son should; there
was no possibility of insecurity.
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