The tide was coming in, and gained upon the reef just outside the cottage windows, with a soft, inexorable sound.
“I am not a free man,” he added.
“Return to your chains and your cell,” suggested Helen. “It is—as you say—the better way.”
“I said nothing of the kind! Pardon me.”
“Didn’t you? It does not signify. It doesn’t often signify what people say—do you think?”
“Are you coming to see my people—the work? You said you would, you know. Shall I call and take you, some day?”
“Do you think it matters—to the drunkards?”
“Oh, well,” said Bayard, looking disappointed, “never mind.”
“But I do mind,” returned Helen, in her full, boylike voice. “I want to come. And I’m coming. I had rather come, though, than be taken. I’ll turn up some day in the anxious seat when you don’t expect me. I’ll wear a veil, and an old poke bonnet—yes, and a blanket shawl—and confess. I defy you to find me out!”
“Miss Carruth,” said the young preacher with imperiousness, “my work is not a parlor charade.”