“I ain’t got but one friend on this earth, looks like,” began Creed wearily, as he got to his feet, “and now I’m obliged to send her away from me.”
It was more than Judith could bear. She lifted her swimming eyes to him in the dusk; he was recovering self command and strength, but he was still white, shaken, the bandaged head and shoulder showing how close he had been to death. Her love overbore virgin timidity and tradition.
“Don’t send me away then,” she said in the deepest tones of that rich, passionate voice of hers. “Ef hit’s me you’re namin’ when you speak of having but one friend—don’t send me away, Creed.”
He came close and caught her hand, looking into her face with wondering half comprehension of her words. That face was dyed with sudden, burning red. She hoped and expected that he would make the proffer which must come from him. When he did not, she burst out in a vehement, tense whisper,
“If—if you love me like you said you did——”
Creed hesitated, bewildered. He was too ill to judge matters aright, but he knew one thing.
“I do love you,” he said with mounting firmness. “I may be a mighty poor sort of a fellow—I’ve begun to think so of late—but I love you.”
Judith put out both hands blindly toward him whispering,
“And I love you. I don’t want nothin’ but to be with you an’ help you, an’ take keer of you. I’ll never leave you.”
For a moment the young fellow felt only the dizzy rapture of her frank confession. In that instant he saw himself accepting her sacrifice, taking her in his arms; in anticipation he tasted the sweetness of her lips. Then pure reason, that shrew who had always ruled his days, spoke loud, as the bitterness of his situation rolled back upon him.