"I'm sorry," she whispered. For answer, John Bradford took one of Miss
Theodosia's hands and laid it on hers. He held out one of his own.
"May I have this lady to be my wedded wife, Evangeline? Will you give her to me?" His big voice was very tender. Evangeline looked into his shining eyes. The mystery of love swept through her small, sweet soul. She shut her eyes as if from some light too bright for them. If she were alone, she would say her prayers. But the tender voice was going on.
"May I have her, Evangeline—will you put her hand in mine? She is very dear, indeed, to me." She could feel Miss Theodosia's soft hand quiver against her own hard little palm. Miss Theodosia's eyes were tender, too.
Then, suddenly, inspiration came to her. She laid the soft hand in the big hand and looked up, smiling into John Bradford's face.
"I'm willin'," she said, "if you'll honor an' obey."
It was as if a silken gown enfolded Evangeline's straight little shoulders and they heard her say: "I pronounce thee." The strange little ceremony left them hushed.
No one spoke again for a little space. Somewhere sleepy birds twittered, disturbed by rustling leaves or stealthy marauders. Somewhere a clock intoned distantly. A train far away rushed through the night, perhaps to some Lonesome Land, but they were not on it. Then John Bradford broke the spell. He leaned down and kissed Evangeline.
A little laugh bubbled up to him. "You must've made a mistake. I'm the wrong one—mercy gracious!"