"I have only known it myself since that day in the rain," he interrupted. "Before that, I thought I was only helping you, as I would have helped any woman—or man, either. But then I knew it was something else. And to-day when Godfrey French said he would not have our names coupled together—"
"Oh!" the girl cried sharply.
"And that you would not think twice of a rough, uneducated man like myself," he pursued. "I decided to find out to-night whether he was right or wrong."
"He was wrong!" she cried. "That is—I mean—that you are not rough and uneducated, and—"
"I am both," Angus admitted gravely. "I have worked hard since I was a boy, and what education I have I have got for myself. In that he was right. And so I find it very hard to tell you what I want to, as a woman should be told, because words do not come to my tongue easily, and never did. The thoughts I have had I have always kept to myself, for that, and because there was no one who would understand even if I could have put them into words. And this is all I can say, that I love you as a man loves one woman in his lifetime, and I want you for my wife. Is it yes or no, Faith?"
"But—Angus—I never thought of such a thing—not really, I mean. You were always kind, helpful, but never like—like—"
"Never like a lover?"
"Well—no."
Angus laid his great hands on her shoulders. The ordinary grimness of his face was lacking. It was replaced by something ineffably tender. Slowly he drew her to him until they stood breast to breast.
"I can be like a lover, Faith," he said, "if you will have it so."