Beulah put her hands to her face suddenly, and, sinking back into the depths of the big cushioned chair on the edge of which she had been tensely poised during most of the conversation, burst into tears.
“You’re the only one that knows,” she sobbed 232 over and over again. “I’m so tired, Peter, but I’ve got to go on and on and on. If they stop me, I’ll kill myself.”
Peter crossed the room to her side and sat down on her chair-arm.
“Don’t cry, dear,” he said, with a hand on her head. “You’re too tired to think things out now,—but I’ll help you.”
She lifted a piteous face, for the moment so startlingly like that of the dead girl he had loved that his senses were confused by the resemblance.
“How, Peter?” she asked. “How can you help me?”
“I think I see the way,” he said slowly.
He slipped to his knees and gathered her close in his arms.
“I think this will be the way, dear,” he said very gently.
“Does this mean that you want me to marry you?” she whispered, when she was calmer.