“And he knows that she would ruin him, and kill his heart and destroy his life.”
“The waters of Marah are bitter,” she murmured, and she turned her face away from him to the woods. There was no trouble there. The birds were singing, black squirrels were jumping from bough to bough, and they could hear the tapping of the woodpecker. She slowly drew on her gloves, as if for occupation.
He spoke at length as though thinking aloud: “But he knows that, whatever comes, life has had for him more compensations than he deserves. For, in his trouble, a woman came, and said kind words, and would have helped him if she could.”
“There were TWO women,” she said solemnly.
“Two women?” he repeated slowly.
“The one stayed in her home and prayed, and the other came.”
“I do not understand,” he said: and he spoke truly.
“Love is always praying for its own, therefore one woman prayed at home. The other woman who came was full of gratitude, for the man was noble, she owed him a great debt, and she believed in him always. She knew that if at any time in his life he had done wrong, the sin was without malice or evil.”
“The woman is gentle and pitiful with him, God knows.”
She spoke quietly now, and her gravity looked strange in one so young.