He took her hands and held them firmly. "Alida," he said, gravely yet kindly, "be still and listen to me."
For a moment or two longer her bosom heaved with convulsive sobs, and then she grew quiet. "Don't you know you can't go away?" he asked, still retaining her hands and looking in her face.
"I could for your sake," she began.
"No, it wouldn't be for my sake. I don't wish you to go, and wouldn't let you. If you should let the Oakville rabble drive you away, I WOULD be in danger, and so would others, for I'd be worse on 'em than an earthquake. After the lesson they've had tonight, they'll let us alone, and I'll let them alone. You know I've tried to be honest with you from the first. Believe me, then, the trouble's over unless we make more for ourselves. Now, promise you'll do as I say and let me manage."
"I'll try," she breathed softly.
"No, no! That won't do. I'm beginning to find you out. You may get some foolish, self-sacrificing notion in your head that it would be best for me, when it would be my ruination. Will you promise?"
"Yes."
"Famous! Now you can bathe my head all you please for it feels a little queer."
"It's an awful wound," she said in tones of the deepest sympathy. "Oh, I'm so sorry!"
"Pshaw! My head is too hard for that little scamp of a Weeks to break. His turn'll come next."