"Yes, I do; I think it is your plain duty to do so."
"If I did she would throw me over as she would toss away one of her pears that was bad."
"I don't think so; it is only your fear makes you have that thought."
"But why should I tell her? That is all past and gone."
"You would be starting life together with something withheld from her; there would be no thorough trust in each other. And, suppose some one told her of the occurrence? Such a thing would not be impossible. Better lose her now than lose her respect when you are tied together for life."
There was a tender pleading in her voice which quite broke David down. "I believe you're right. I'll do it," he said in a broken voice.
The next morning he was unusually quiet; during the walk to the meeting in the afternoon he was still as absorbed. Bessie did not know what to make of matters, trying in vain to read the secret of the gloom on his face. "I never knew he was of a sulky turn before," she said to herself; "if this is having a lover it's a mighty queer business. I wonder if it's something I've done wrong! I wonder if he expected I should have gone down on my knees in ecstasy last night!" But wonder as she might there came no answer.
On the journey home David made a desperate effort to get the unpleasant task over.
"Bessie, there's something I want to tell you which I ought to have told you last night, but did not like to."
There was such a ring of pain in the voice that Bessie's heart was touched at once, and for the first time, and of her own accord, she slipped her hand into his arm. The little action was like balm of Gilead to David.