“Won’t you take my hand, Merne?” said she. “Won’t you?”
“I dare not,” said he hoarsely. “No, I dare not!”
“Why? Do you wish to leave me still feeling that I am in your debt? You can afford so much now,” she said brokenly, “for those who have not won!”
“Think you that I have won?” he broke out. “Theodosia—Theo—I shall call you by your old name just once—I do not take your hand—I dare not touch you—because I love you! I always shall. God help me, it is the truth!”
“Did you get my letters?” she said suddenly, and looked him fair in the face.
Meriwether Lewis stood searching her countenance with his own grave eyes.
“Letters?” said he at length. “What letters?”
Her eyes looked up at him luminously.
“You are glorious!” said she. “Yes, a woman’s name would be safe with you. You are strong. How terrible a thing is a sense of honor! But you are glorious! Good-by!”