“Oh!” Another little cry, not of joy this time, of anger, rather. There was silence then for a space, while the man turned his face to the wall and the girl tried to still the beating of her heart and control herself sufficiently to be able to speak.
“Then, Martin,” she whispered, “you saved Lyman for me, because you thought I loved him?”
He lifted a protesting hand as if pleading for silence.
She went on haltingly, “Why, Martin, you saved the wrong one!”
He raised his head from the pillow then; a strangling sound came from his lips.
The girl’s face burned with blushes but her eyes looked fearlessly into his as she said again, “You saved the wrong one. Why, Martin--Martin-- if you wanted to save the man I love--you--you should have saved yourself!”
He read the truth in her eyes; his arms reached out for her then and her lips moved to his as steel to a magnet.
When he spoke she marveled at the tenderness in his voice; she never dreamed, even in her brightest romantic dreams, that a man’s voice could hold so much tenderness. “Amanda, I began to read my own heart that day you found me in the woods and helped and comforted me.”
“Oh, Martin,” she pressed her lips upon his bandaged head, her eyes were glowing with that “light that never was on land or sea"--"Oh, Martin, I’ve loved you ever since that day you saved my life by throwing me into the bean-patch and then kissed my burnt hand.”
“Not your hand this time, sweetheart,” he whispered, “your lips!”