He groaned again and she misunderstood.
"Don't take on so and be sad for master. There's happiness even for him in the world still—here and there; and happiness is God's gift, I suppose. None else can give it to a man—so my Dan says. Them as bring it be the messengers—only the messengers. All the same, I hate only Heaven to be thanked when a man or woman does a brave, lovely thing."
"Won't you never be like other females?" he asked. "Seeing what your husband is, God help the reckoning."
"Leave it so," she answered, "and say nought to nobody. You know nothing more than that I love the man—so do you—for pity—and for his gentle thoughts—and for his loneliness—aye, and for his own self too. I'll say that to you. He's a good man. He does countless good things; you know that. Don't torment yourself for him—or me. Forget you met me to-night. Here's the stepping-stones, an' the moon hidden, just when we wanted the light most. Take hold of my hand. I'm stronger far than you."
They crossed the water carefully, and the great shape of Daniel Brendon loomed up ahead.
"At last!" he shouted. "I beginned to think you was night-foundered in the storm. Did you see that wonder in the sky a bit ago?"
Once more Sarah Jane spoke swiftly to Prout before they reached the other.
"Mind this too," she said. "There's the joy of giving, John. 'Tis a dear joy to give! Hilary Woodrow knows that—so do I—none better than him and me."
The old man drew a grief-stricken breath, and left her with her husband.