On the Sunday following the day when I got such momentous news from
Wynne, I was met suddenly, as my mother and I were leaving the church
after the service, by the gaze of a pair of blue eyes that arrested
my steps as by magic, and caused the church and the churchgoers to
vanish from my sight.

The picture of Winifred that had dwelt in my mind so long was that of
a beautiful child. The radiant vision of the girl before me came on
me by surprise and dazzled me. Tall and slim she was now, but the
complexion had not altered at all; the eyes seemed young and
childlike as ever.

When our eyes met she blushed, then turned pale, and took hold of the
top of a seat near which she was standing. She came along the aisle
close to us, gliding and slipping through the crowd, and passed out
of the porch. My mother had seen my agitation, and had moved on in a
state of haughty indignation. I had no room, however, at that moment
for considerations of any person but one. I hurried out of the
church, and, following Winifred, grasped her gloved hand.

'Winifred, you are come,' I said; 'I have been longing to see you.'

She again turned pale and then blushed scarlet. Next she looked down
me as if she had expected to see something which she did not see, and
when her eyes were upraised again something in them gave me a strange
fancy that she was disappointed to miss my crutches.

'Why didn't you write to me from Wales, Winifred? Why didn't you
answer my letter years ago?'