His voice had changed, and his accent. He spoke to her possessively; he no longer depended, he directed. Instantly sensitive to the difference, the girl stopped.
"Are you running away from me, Elsie Murray?" His hand closed lightly on her arm, he stood over her with the advantage of his superior height, and she heard him draw the cold air deeply into his lungs. "I did not tell you the truth, back there. I meant to, but I did not know it myself. I want what you might give, and I want to give as much to you. Why, do you know what started me toward ending all this bad business, what has given me the will to keep on? It was what you said, the first night I saw you, about a woman waiting for her husband, with the lamps lit, and all. I can't say what I mean—I'm clumsy! But, will you come keep the lamp for me?"
She tried to speak, but to his dismay and her own, instead covered her face; not weeping, but fiercely struggling not to weep.
"No," she flung refusal at him. "No! No!"
As her firmness lessened, his gained. She looked pitiful and helpless, she, his tower of strength. Suddenly, protectingly, he caught her from the assault of a violent swirl of the gale; caught and held her against him, in the curve of his arm.
"If you may love me, and I want you, we have enough to start with," he gently insisted. "I promise you I'll do my part. Will you try it with me?"
She remained still. But the long pause, the contact between them, joined with the change in the man and helped him.
"Will you marry me to-night?" he pressed.
She drew away from him with a flare of her natural resolution.
"No! Not to-night, if you could!"