Now she felt the great hand closing once more on top of hers above the broken pickets.
"Listen, Aurora," said he, "if it doesn't seem that you and I can be married, there's nothing in the world which makes it wrong for me to help you all I can—you mustn't think I didn't love you. You don't think that, do you?"
"I don't know what I think!" said she, rubbing at the ceaseless tears, so new to her. "All these matters have been out of my life—forever, as I thought. But sometimes—I've been so lonesome, you know, and so helpless—I'm tempted. It's hard for a woman to live all alone—it's almost a thing impossible—she's so lonesome—sometimes I almost think I could depend on you, even now."
"That's fine!" said he, choking up; "that's fine. I expect that's about all I had coming to me after all. So I oughtn't to be sorry—I ought to be very happy. That's about the finest thing I ever heard in all my life."
"And about the sweetest words I ever heard in all my life were what you said just now—after knowing all you do about me."
"But you won't tell me that you'll marry me now?" He bent and picked up her hand in both his great ones. "I know you will not." He kissed her hand reverently.
"Good night," said he gently. And presently she was sensible that his shambling figure was passing away down the street under the checkered shadows of the maples.
Aurora Lane stood yet for just a moment, how long she did not know. There came to her ear the sound of running footsteps. Her boy came down the street, passing Horace Brooks with a wave of his hand. He reached her side now as she still stood at the gate. He was panting, perspiring a trifle.
"Fine!" said he. "Let's go in. Maybe I can sleep—I'd like to sleep."
"What kept you so late?" asked Aurora Lane. She hurried in ahead of him.