She understood. Her eyes were a glory to look into then. Her
fingers unclenched at her breast, she gave a short, quick breath
and a little cry--and her arms almost reached out to him. He was
afraid of himself as he went to her and led her again to the door
of her room. And there for a moment they paused, and she looked up
into his face. Her hand crept from his and went softly to his
shoulder. She said something to him, almost in a whisper, and he
could no longer fight against the pride and the joy and the faith
he saw in her eyes. He bent down, slowly so that she might draw
away from him if she desired, and kissed her upturned lips. And
then, with a strange little cry that was like the soft note of a
bird, she turned from him and disappeared into the darkness of her
room.

A great deal of that night's storm passed over his head unheard
after that. It was late when he went to bed. He crowded Bram's
long box-stove with wood before he extinguished the last candle.

And for an hour after that he lay awake, thinking of Celie and of
the great happiness that had come into his life all in one day.
During that hour he made the plans of a lifetime. Then he, too,
fell into sleep--a restless, uneasy slumber filled with many
visions. For a time there had come a lull in the gale, but now it
broke over the cabin in increased fury. A hand seemed slapping at
the window, threatening to break it, and a volley of wind and snow
shot suddenly down the chimney, forcing open the stove door, so
that a shaft of ruddy light cut like a red knife through the dense
gloom of the cabin. In varying ways the sounds played a part in
Philip's dreams. In all those dreams, and segments of dreams, the
girl was present. It was strange that in all of them she should be