"You—you mean I won't have to go—to go to the river?" he cried, unable to think beyond that awful alternative.
"I never meant you to do that."
He suddenly took a long, deep breath and lifted his face, to stare about as if trying to convince himself that he was really there, alive and awake.
"I guess I don't quite get your meaning, Mary," he muttered, but his fingers were beginning to tighten on hers. "Of course, I understand you are still my wife, and—You don't mean you—you are going to take me back!"
"No. I am asking you to take me back."
He could not speak for a full minute or more.
"You'll give me another chance? That's what you mean—that's what you're really saying, isn't it?" He was fairly gasping out the words.
"Yes, Tom."
"Oh!" He turned and flung himself on the bench, bursting into tears. "I don't deserve it—I don't deserve it! It's too much to hope for." These and other sentences fell in broken disorder from his lips.
She did not speak, but sat down beside him, laying her hand on his shoulder. After a time, he grew quieter,—then almost deathly still. She shook him gently.