"Well, Martha," he said, coming up to her uneasily, "you look tired."
"Tired? No, I was only thinking, Amos."
The pallor of her face, its timid eyes and patient mouth, the whole crushed look of the woman, struck him freshly. He stooped and kissed her forehead, the sharp lines of his face relaxing a little.
"I didn't mean to be hard on you, Martha; we both have enough to bear without that, but it's best not to talk of what can't be helped,—you see."
"Yes."
"Don't think anything more about the day; it's not—it's not really good for you; you must cheer up, little woman."
"Yes, Amos."
Perhaps his unusual tenderness gave her courage; she stood up, putting both arms around his neck.
"If you'd only try to love her a little, after all, my husband! He would know it; He might save her for it."
Amos Ryck choked, coughed, and said it was time for prayers. He took down the old Bible in which his child's baby-fingers used to trace their first lessons after his own, and read, not of her who loved much and was forgiven, but one of the imprecatory Psalms.