“And mine,” said she softly, “is Emily.”
Silence again.
His hand had strayed over to hers, and suddenly hers curled into a little ball, and his brown, strong hand closed over it protectingly.
“Emily,” he half-whispered, “you didn’t quite forget me.”
“No,” she whispered back.
“And you don’t think I’m just a drunken old—”
“Oh, my dear—oh, no, no!” she half-sobbed. “You’re a good man. You have loved God, and now, in the day of need, He has not forgotten His servant.”
CHAPTER XXIII
THE ATTACK
“FA-ATHER!” rang out a querulous voice from the cottage.