"I am quite ready," said Mary Gage. "As though I could ever thank you enough!"
"Let me remain in your memory, as a picturesque and noble figure, my dear lady! Think of me as a Sir Galahad, which I am not. Picture me of lofty carriage and beautiful countenance, which is not true. Imagine me as a pleasing and masterful personality in every way—which I am not. You will not meet me face to face."
"I've been praying for my sight when it didn't seem to be any use to have faith in God any more. If I should get back my eyes I would always have faith in prayer. But—the other day you told me I'd not be married, then! May not a blind woman be a married woman also?"
"No! Not if she never saw her husband. How could she ever have chosen, have selected? How could either her body or her soul ever have seen?"
She rose before him suddenly. "You say that!" She choked. "You say that, who helped put me where I am! And now you say you are going away—and you say that's all wrong, my being married! What do you mean?"
"If I gave you back your eyes and your life, isn't that something?"
"Why, no! A fight which isn't fought is worse than defeat. But you're talking as though you really meant to go away and leave me—always!"
"Yes. I've come to say good-by—and then to operate. Two this afternoon. Annie will come for you. I have told her what to do."
"And my husband?"
"Said he couldn't stand it to see you hurt. Said he would stand outside the door, but that he couldn't come in. Said he would be right there all the time. There's a great man, Mrs. Gage."